















































» 


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BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 


SAI NT* LUKE 

(Illustrated). 

l2mo, red ruled, cover stamp in gold, cloth, 60 cents. 


“This little booklet, giving an account of St. Luke’s life and 
of the traditions concerning him, has much to commend it to 
Church people.”— Church Bells , N. Y. 

“The author has a high conception of the character, of this 
great Evangelist*”— The Troy Daily Times. 

“A dainty little volume which gives a sketch of St. Luke 
which covers all that is known of the evangelist, and is calcu¬ 
lated to create an interest in the life of the Beloved Physician, 
which will be new to most of us.”— The Working Churchman , 
Pittsfield, Mass. 

“Brings to us an interest in the life of the Evangelist which 
many of us have not before realized. It is embellished with five 
copies of old paintings, which add greatly to the interest of the 
book.”— Catholic Champion, N, Y. 

“This is a dainty volume and might serve as an acceptable 
gift for the coming holidays.”— Trinity Record , N. Y. 


CROTHERS & KORTH, Publishers, 
246 Fourth Avenue , New York. 


Preparing for Publication. 

(ftrtctffa ©omtnt 

A COMPANION VOLUME TO ANGELUS DOMINI. 














$ngefu0 ©otntnt* 





























































* 




















. 




































































































' 











































* 




























Angel Gabriel. paul delaroche. 

* lam Gabriel that stand in the presence of God.” 


































































Angel Gabriel. 


G. Max. 














(#n<$efu0 ©omtnt 

AN ANTHOLOGY IN ART AND VERSE 

IN RELATION TO 

(0feeeeb Q3tr<jtn QYlarp 


SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY THE 

Editor of “ Songs for Christmas “ Songs of Easter ” and 
Author of the work on "St. Luke." etc. 


“ We can only discern spiritual nature so lar as we are like it ” 






NEW YORK 

WILLIAM R. JEN 

851-853 Sixth Avenu 




anrr**\ 


MDCCCXCV 


as/ 


Copyright, 1893, 1895. by "William R. Jenkins. 


SECOND EDITION 


* ’'n 


V •/ 

> 


Prixted By the 
Press of William R. Jenkins 
New York. 


Half tone Plates made by the Suffolk Eng. Co., Boston. 





£o (tttg (tttofffcr 

THE HOLY CATHOLIC CHURCH 


IjBfceecli (Jttarg (Boer Q?trgtit 




PREFACE. 


HE object of this book of selections, from 



authors ancient and modern, will be attained 
if any person find assistance from it in bring¬ 


ing his thoughts and feelings into unison with the 
time. Millet’s “E’Angelus” was suggested to him, 
no doubt, by the distant chime of the bells calling to 
prayer, and those who heard would murmur in response, 
“Angelus Domini Nuntiavit Mariae.” 

Mrs. Jameson, in her book of “Sacred and legen¬ 
dary Art,” says: “The custom of adding the Angelic 
Salutation, the ‘Ave Maria,’ to the Lord’s Prayer was 
first introduced in the Tenth Century, and by the end 
of the following century it had been adopted in the 
office of the Church. This was, at first, intended as a 
a reminder of the mystery of the Incarnation, as 
announced by the Angel Gabriel. It must have had 
the effect of keeping the idea of Mary as united with 
that of the Son, and as the instrument of the Incarna¬ 
tion, continually in the minds of the people.” 

According to the old English use of Sarum, the 
Angelus was said at 6 A. m., noon, and at 6 p. m. In 
Italy, at sunrise, noon, and at sunset. 


v 



The selections given from the great “singers of high 
poems” beautifully express the spiritual, intellectual, 
and physical beauty of the Blessed Virgin. All are 
noticed and dwelt upon with the most fervent praise, 
thus portraying their conception of the theological type. 

Many more authors might be quoted, but enough 
is before the reader to illustrate the beauty of the 
rhythmic worship of the old time, and its bearing on 
the hymn-worship of to-day. Thanks are due (and 
are herewith acknowledged) to the courtesy of pub¬ 
lisher and author, by which many copyrighted Ameri¬ 
can poems have been allowed to appear in this collec¬ 
tion. In regard to some, permission has been accorded 
by the authors themselves; others, having been gathered 
as waifs, have been used without especial authority. 
It is hoped that any oversight will not be construed as 
an intended discourtesy. Particular acknowledgments 
are due to Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., D. Apple- 
ton & Co., and Longmans, Green & Co. 

In the hope that some soothing, comforting or 
devotional thoughts may be suggested to the readers, 
this volume is sent forth, in the spirit of the Church, 
asking for it Godspeed. 

The Editor. 

St. Anne's Day, 1893. 


vi 


PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. 


T HE first edition of one thousand copies has 
been exhausted in less than eighteen months. 
The present edition is put forth, revised and 
corrected, with forty new plates, in the hope that it 
may continue to do good, either by helping to soften 
mere prejudice, or cultivate due reverence to the 
Virgin, and that it will tend to draw forth one defense 
and honor for the Virgin, without giving her the attri¬ 
butes of the God head; and to embody Truth as well as 
poetry. 

The Editor. 

City of Boston, 

Annunciation of Virgin Mary , 1895. 


Vll 



%( Die Menschen sind in Poesie und Kunst nur so tang pro- 
ductiv ais sie re Eg ids. ’ ’— Goethe. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Angelus ....... i 

L’Angelus. Anonymous .... 5 

The Angelus. By Francis Bret Harte ... 6 

Three Peals of the Angelus. By Henry Nutcombe 

Oxenham ...... 8 

Ave-Maria Bells. By Charles Warren Stoddard . . 9 

The Vesper Bell. By Alfred B. Street . . 10 

The Vesper Hymn. By Sophia May Eckley . . 11 

Ave Maria. By George Gordon, Lord Byron . 12 

Mother of God. By Edgar Allan Poe . . . 13 

The Vesper Bell (Trio). By Robert Southey, Mrs. Julia 

Ward Howe, and H.W. Whayman . . 14 

Ave Maria. By Thomas W. Parsons and Rev. John 

Keble ....... 17 

Ave Maria (Hymn to the Virgin). By Sir Walter Scott, 18 
Bart . . 

Vesper Hymn. By John Hay .... 19 

The Virgin (Trio). By Oliver Wendell Holmes, John 

Milton, and John Keats . . . .20 


ix 



PAGE 

Ave Maria. By Thomas O. Davis ... 21 

For the Nativity of the B. V. M. By Adam of St. Victor 27 
Commemoration of St. Anne, Mother of the B. V. M. By 

Mary Ann Thomson . . . . .28 

Dedication of the Virgin. By Sir John Croker Barrow 33 
Mary’s Espousals. By Robert Southwell . . 34 

Mary’s Virtue of Humility. By Dante Alighieri . . 39 

Mary at the Well. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 40 

The Virgin’s Loveliness. By Dante Gabriel Rossetti . 42 

Words Addressed to the Virgin. By Dante Gabriel 

Rossetti ...... 43 

The Annunciation. By John Keble . . -44 

Annunciation of the B. V. M. By Mrs. Felicia D. Hemans 49 
The Annunciation. By Adam of St. Victor. Translated 

byj. M. Neale ..... 50 

The Angel’s Message to Mary. By Mrs. M. Mortimer, 

author of “ Peep o’ Day ” . . . .54 

The Annunciation. By Adelaide Anne Procter . . 55 

The Holy Name of Mary. By St. Bernard of Clairvaux 58 
Visitation of the B. V. M. By Edward C. Caswall . 63 

The Visitation of the B. V. M. From the Journal of the 

“Guild of the Holy Cross ”, ... 65 

“And Mary Said.” By Saint Luke . . .66 

On the Morning of Christ’s Nativity. By John Milton 71 

Hymn of the Nativity. By John Milton . . 72 

Holy Family. By Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe . 72 

Circumcision. By John Milton. ... 77 

A Christmas Carol. By Samuel Taylor Coleridge . 78 

Mary, Mother. By Harriet McEwen Kimball . 81 

A Pair of Turtle Doves. By John B. Tabb . . 82 


x 


PAGE 


The Purification. By Rev. John Keble . . 87 

The Presentation of Christ, or the Purification of St. 

Mary the Virgin. Translated from the Latin by 
Edward C. Caswall ..... 90 

His Mother’s Joy. By John White Chadwick . 91 

To the Infant Jesus. By Edward C. Caswall . , 92 

The Virgin’s Cradle Hymn. By SamuelTaylor Coleridge 93 
Cradle Song of the Virgin. By Lope Felix de Vega. 

Translated by Constantina E. Brooks . . 94 

The Holy Family. By Frederick William Faber . 99 

Mother, Where’s Calvary ? By J. H. Couillard . 102 

Mary the Mother of Jesus. By Mrs. Elizabeth Rundle 

Charles ....... 104 

Le Repos en Egypt: the Sphinx. By Agnes Repplier 108 
The Child Jesus. By Mrs. Margaret Junkin Preston. 113 
He Grew in Wisdom. By Marion Ames Taggart . 120 

The Virgin Mary to the Child Jesus. By Mrs. Elizabeth 

Barrett Browning ..... 122 

Christ in the Temple. By John Donne . . . 135 

Woman’s Christmas. By Lucy Larcom . . 136 

The Mother’s Hymn. By William Cullen Bryant . 140 

Scenes at the Holy Home. By Clarence A. Walworth 145 
St. Mary. By Carl Johann Philipp Spittia . . 146 

The Mother’s Secret. By Oliver Wendell Holmes . 147 

Mary the Mother of Jesus By Sir Henry William Baker 155 
To the Virgin. By Dante Gabriel Rossetti . . 157 

Gracious Son of Mary, Hear. By Henry Hart Milman . 158 

The Shadow of the Cross. By Richard Wilton . 161 

Mary at Cana of Galilee. By Gerard Moultrie . . 162 

Mary the Mother of Jesus. By N. P. Willis . . 167 


xi 


PAGE 


Mary Kept all These Words. By Lady Georgiana C. 

Fullerton ...... 168 

Lady of the Passion. By Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning 171 
Stabat Mater Dolorosa. Translated by Edward C. Caswall 172 
Stabat Mater Dolorosa. By Jacobus de Benedictus . 174 

Lament of Our Lady. By William Chatterton Dix . 178 

Saint Mary at the Cross. By Caroline Frances Little 182 
Jesus Crucified. From “ Lyra Catholic ” . . 185 

To the Virgin. From “All Angels and Saints.” By 

George Herbert ..... 186 

The Virgin... By William Wordsworth . . 187 

The Blessed Mary’s Land. By Henry Wadsworth Long¬ 
fellow ....... 188 

Lines on the “ Madonna of the Rucellai.” By Mrs. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning . . . 189 

The Name of Mary. By John Boyle O’Reilly . . 190 

The Month of Mary. By John Henry Newman . 191 

The Month of May. By Epiphanius Wilson . . 193 

The Birds of God. By George Parsons Lathrop . 195 

Lines on.Murillo’s Immaculate Conception. By Aubrey 

de Vere ....... 196 

Lines on Murillo’s Picture at Madrid. By Archbishop 

Trench ...... 200 

To the Virgin. By Francesco Petrarch. Translated by 

Major Macgregor ..... 205 

The Virgin. By Francis T. Palgrave . . . 210 

The Monk Who Honored the Virgin. By John Lydgate 215 
Orlando and the Giant. By Luigi Pulci. Translated by 

George Gordon, Lord Byron . . , 217 

A Legendary Ballad. By Johann Gottfried Von Herder. 
Translated by Mrs. Mary Howitt 

xii 


218 



PAGE 


Marriage of St. Katherine. By Dante Gabriel Rossetti 225 
Lines on Correggio’s Madonna of St. Sebastian. By 

Michael Field ..... 226 

Reliquaries: A Fragment. By David Gray . .231 

Students’ Day in the National Gallery, London. By Sir 

Edwin Arnold. ..... 232 

The Legend of Are-Coeli (Extract). By Thomas Bailey 

Aldrich ....... 240 

St. Luke Painting the Virgin. By Edward Dowden . 245 

Our Lady of the Rocks. By Dante Gabriel Rossetti . 246 

Lines on the same Picture. By Mary Lamb . . 246 

The Sistine Madonna. By Henry M. Goodwin . .251 

The Madonna di San Sisto. By George H. Miles . 252 

Sonnet: For Herself. By Vittoria Colonna . . 254 

Invocation in the “ Prioress’ Tale.” By Geoffrey Chaucer. 

Modernized by William Wordsworth. . . 259 

The Virgin and Her Babe. By Alvaro de Hinojosa Y 

Carbayal. Translated by Sir John Bowring . 260 

Song of the Blessed Virgin. By Mrs. Felicia D. Hemans 266 
Divina Commedia. By Dante Alighieri. Translated by 

H. F. Cary . . . . . .271 

Virgin Borne by Angels. By Luis Ponce de Leon. 

Translated by Sir John Bowring . . . 279 

The Assumption. Salve Maria. Translated from the 

Flemish by S. Baring-Gould .... 280 


xiii 


/ 


''Her, San Sisto names, and her Foligno, 

Her, that visits Florence in a vision, 

Her, that’s left with lilies in the Louvre, 

Seen by us and all the world in circle.” 

—Robert Browning. 


XIV 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

Angel Gabriel, by Paul Delaroche . Introductory 
“ “ by Gabriel Max . Frontispiece 

Angel of the Annunciation, by Carlo Dolci, face i 

L’Angelus, by Jean Francois Millet ... 4 

The Sun Descending (Headpiece), by R. A. La Fontaine 6 
The Dying Day (Headpiece), by R. A. La Fontaine 12 

Ave Maria, by Carl Raupp ..... 16 

The Virgin of Ravenna (Greek Bas-relief, 6th century) 23 
The Birth of the Virgin, by Andrea del Sarto . 26 

Girlhood of Mary, by Dante Gabriel Rossetti . . 29 

Dedication of the Virgin, by Vittore Carpaccio . 32 

The Betrothal of the Virgin, by C. C. Perkins . . 35 

The Annunciation, by Flaxman ... 38 

The Annunciation (Headpiece), by Loren Monaco . 39 

Santa Maria Virgine (Headpiece), by Sassoferra'o 42 

Annunciation, by Guido Reni . . . . 45 

Annunciation (Headpiece), by Andrea del Sarto . 48 

Annunciation, by Albertinelli .... 51 

Annunciation, by Luca della Robbia . . 55 

The Virgin Appearing to St. Bernard, by Filippino Lippi 59 
The Salutation, by Albertinelli ... 62 


xv 



PAGE 

The Visitation (Headpiece), by Luca Della Robbia . 63 

The Virgin in the Act of Writing the Magnificat, by 

Botticelli ...... 67 

Holy Night, by Correggio ..... 70 

The Nativity (Headpiece), by Lorenzo di Credi . 71 

Nativity, by G. Dor6 . . . . .73 

Circumcision, by Mantegna .... 76 

Holy Family (Headpiece), by Raphael ... 78 

The Adoration of the Magi (Headpiece), by Pinturicchio 81 
The Mother of Our Lord, by Frederick Goodall, A.R.A. 83 
Presentation in the Temple, by Fra Bartolommeo * 86 

A Pastoral (Headpiece), by Titian ... 91 

Holy Family (Headpiece), by Solario . . 92 

Madonna Adoring the Holy Infant, by Francia . 95 

Holy Family of the Beardless Joseph, by Raphael . 98 

Holy Family (Headpiece), by Schidone . . .99 

The Childhood of Jesus (Headpiece), by J. H. Couillard 102 
Madonna and Child, by Carlo Dolci . . . 104 

The Madonna of St. Luke . : . . 105 

Flight into Egypt (Headpiece), by Pinturicchio . . 108 

Repose in Egypt, by L. Olivier Merson . . 109 

The Return from Egypt, by Peter Paul Rubens . 112 

Madonna and Child, by Murillo . . . 115 

Mary and Joseph Conduct Jesus Home, by Peter Paul 

Rubens . . . . . . .118 

Mater Amabilis (Headpiece), by Murillo . . 12c 

The Virgin and Child (Headpiece), by Guido Reni . 122 

Madonna and Child, by Carlo Dolci ... 123 

Madonna, by Murillo ..... 126 

Madonna of the Veil, by Raphael . . , 129 


xvi 


PAGE 

Madonna, Child, and Angels, by Carlo Maratta . 132 

Christ Disputing in the Temple (Headpiece), by W. C. 

T. Dobson ...... 133 

The First Christmas, by W. A. Bouguereau . . 137 

Madonna and Child, by Carlo Dolci . . . 141 

Holy Family, by Signorelli . . . .144 

Twelve-years-old Jesus on His way to Jerusalem, by 

Otto Mengelberg ..... 149 

Christ Disputing with the Doctors, by Bernardino Luini 152 
Shadow of Death, by W. Holman Hunt . . . 160 

Marriage at Cana, by Paul Veronese . . . 163 

Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane, by Paul Delaroche 166 
Virgin at Foot of Cross, by Paul Delaroche . . 169 

A Pieta (Headpiece), by Francia . . . 172 

The Virgin Mary and her Dead Son (Pieta), by Michael 

Angelo ...... 175 

Pieta, by Fra Bartolommeo . . . .179 

St. John Leading the Virgin to His Home, by W. C. T. 

Dobson ....... 183 

Regina Cceli (Headpiece), by Holbein . . 187 

Madonna (Headpiece), by Giovanni Cimabue . . 189 

The Immaculate Conception, by Murillo . . 197 

Immaculate Conception (Madrid), by Murillo . . 201 

Virgin of the Mirror, by Murillo . . . 204 

Madonna di Foligno, by Raphael . . . .211 

A. Monk at His Devotions (Headpiece), by Overbeck 215 
The Madonna and Holy Infant, by Michael Angelo . 219 

La Sainte Anne, by Leonardo da Vinci . . 222 

Mystic Marriage of St. Katherine (Headpiece), by Hans 

Memling ...... 225 

xvii 


PAGE 


Madonna of St. Sebastian, by Correggio . . 227 

Madonna della Stella, Fra Angelico . . . 230 

Madonna della Sedia, by Raphael . . . 233 

Virgin of Seville, by Murillo .... 236 

Santo Bambino, attributed to St. Luke . . 241 

St. Luke Sketching the Virgin, by Roger Van der 

Weyden ....... 244 

The Virgin of the Rocks, by Leonardo da Vinci . 247 

The Sistine Madonna, by Raphael . . . 250 

Madonna in Glory, and Saints of Bologna, by Guido 

Reni ....... 255 

Madonna and Child in Glory, with Saints, by Perugino . 258 

The Madonna and Child, by G. Von Bodenhausen . 261 

Our Lady of the Angels, W. A. Bouguereau . . 264 

Coronation of the Virgin, by A. Van Dyck . . 267 

Apparition of the Virgin to St. Bernard, by Murillo . 270 

The Angel Announces to the Virgin her Approaching 

Death, by Fra Filippo Lippi . . . 275 

The Assumption, by Palma Vecchio . . . 278 

The Assumption of the Virgin (Detail), by Titian . 281 

The Coronation of the Virgin, by Fra Filippo Lippi . 284 

Angel, by Albert Dyrer .... 285 


xviii 


INDEX OF AUTHORS. 




PAGE 

Adam of St. Victor (12th century) 

. 

27, 50 

Aldrich, Thomas Bailey (1836- ) 

. , 

. 240 

Alighieri, Dante (1265-1321) . 


39. 271 

Anonymous 

. 

• 5, 284 

Arnold, Sir Edwin (1832- ) 


232 

Baker, Sir Henry William, Bart. (1821 

>877) • 

155 

Barrow, Sir John Croker, Bart. 


33 

Benedictus, Jacobus de ( -1306) 


174 

Bernard, Saint, of Clairvaux (12th century) 

58 

Bowring, Sir John (1792-1872) 

. 

. 260, 279 

Brooks, Constantina E. (author of ‘ ‘ Ballads and 

T ransla- 

tions, New York, 1866) 

. 

94 

Browning, Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett (1809-1861) 

122, 171, 189 

Browning, Robert (1812-1890) 

. 

14, 22, 189, 286 

Bryant, William Cullen (1794-1878) . 

. 

140 

Byron, George Gordon Lord (1788-1824) 

. 12, 217 

Carbayal, Alvaro de Himojosay (12th 

century) 

. 260 

Cary, Henry Francis (1772-1844) . 

. 

. 271 

Caswall, Edward C. (1814-1878) . 

. 

63. 9 °, 92 , 172 

Chadwick, John White (1841-1882) 

• • 

. 91 


PAGE 

104 

259 

78, 93 
254 
102 
39 , 271 


Charles, Mrs. Elizabeth Rundle (1826 1896) 

Chaucer, Geoffrey (1328-1400) 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor (1772-1834), 

Colonna, Vittoria (1490-1547) 

Couillard, J. H. 

Dante, Alighieri (1265-1321) 

Davis, Thomas O. (1814-1845) ... 21 

Dix, William Chatterton (author of “A Vision of All 

Saints,” and other Poems, London, 1871) . . 178 

Donne, John (1573-1631) .... 135 

Dowden, Edward (1843- ) . . 245 

Eckley, Sophia May (18 - ), author of the “Oldest 

of the Old World,” London, i860) . . 11 

Faber, Frederick William (1814-1863) ... 99 

Field, Michael (pseudonym of an English writer, first 

work 1884) ...... 226 

Fullerton, Lady Georgina C. (1812-1885) . . 168 

Goethe, Johann Wolfgang Von (1749-1832) . . vm, 72 

Goodwin, Henry M. (18 - ) (author of “ Christ and 

Humanity,” 1875) .... 251 

Gould, S. Baring-(1834- ) . . . . 280 

Gray, David (1836-1888) . . . . .231 

Guild of the Holy Cross, Journal of the . . 65 

Harte, Francis Bret (1839- ) . . . . 6 

Hay, John (1839- ) 19 

Hemans, Mrs. Felicia D. (1794-1835) . . .48, 266 

Herbert, George (1593-1632) .... 186 

Herder, Johann Gottfried Von (1744-1803) . . 218 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell (1809-1894) . . 20, 147 

Howe, Mrs. Julia Ward (1834- ) • , , 14 


xx 


page 


ttowitt, Mrs. Mary (translator of the “ Improvisatore ” 


of Hans Christian Anderson) 

. 

218 

Keats, John (1795-1821) .... 

. 

20 

Keble, John (1792-1866) 

. 17, 44, 87 

Kimball, Harriet McEwen (1834- ), (author of “Poems ” 

1889—First Work, Boston, 1866) 

81 

La Fontaine, Rachel A. (18 - ), (author of “ Deck the 

Altar with Blossoms Fair,” 1893—First work, 1S91) 

2 

Lamb, Mary (1764-1847) 

. 

246 

Larcom, Lucy (1826-1893) 

. 

136 

Lathrop, George Parsons (1851- ) 

. 

195 

Leon, Luis Ponce de (1508-1591) . 

• 

279 

Little, Caroline Frances (18 - ), author of ‘ 

Vocations,” 1888) 

k Three 

182 

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth (1807-1882) 

. 40, 

188 

Luke, Saint (1st century) 

• 

66 

Lydgate, John (1375-1461) 

• 

215 

Lyra Catholic ..... 

• 

185 

Miles, George H. (1824-1871) 

• 

252 

Milman, Henry Hart (1791-1868') 

• 

158 

Milton, John (1608-1674) .... 

20, 71, 72, 77 

Mortimer, Mrs. M. (18 - ), (author of Peep 0’ 

Day) 

49 

Moultrie, Gerard (1829-1885) . 

• 

162 

Neale, John Mason (1818-1866) 

• 

50 

Newman, John Henry (1808-1890) 

• 

191 

O’Reilly, John Boyle (1844-1890) 

• 

190 

Oxenham, Henry Nutcomb (1829-18S8) 

• 

8 

Palgrave, Francis T. (1824- ) . 

• 

210 

Parsons, Thomas William (1819- ) 

. 

17 

Petrarch, Francesco (1304-1374) . • 

• 

205 


xxi 


£AGfe 

Poe, Edgar Allan (1811-1&49) .... 13 

Preston, Mrs. Margaret Junkin (1838- ) . . 113 

Procter, Adelaide Anne (1825-1864) . . . 55 

Pulci, Luigi (1431-1487) . 217 

Repplier, Agnes (1855- ) . . ,108 

Rossetti, Dante Gabriel (1828-1882) . 42, 43, 157, 225, 246 

Scott, Bart, Sir Walter, (1771-1832) ... 18 

Southey, Robert (1774 1843) .... 14 

Southwell, Robert (1560-1595) .... 34 

Spittia, Carl Johann Philipp (1801- ) . . 146 

Stoddard, Charles Warren (1843- ) 9 

Street, Alfred Billings (1811- ) 10 

Tabb, John B. (18- ), author of “The Mocking Bird”) 82 

Taggart, Marion Ames .... 120 

Thomson, Mary Ann ..... 28 

Trench, Archbishop (1807-1886) . . 200 

Vega, Lope Felix de (12th century) ... 94 

Vere, Aubrey de (18 - ) . . , . 196 

Walworth, Clarence A. (1820- ) 145 

Whayman, Horace W. (1839- ) . . . 14 

Willis, N. P. (1817-1867) ..... 177 

Wilson, Epiphanius (1845- ) 193 

Wilton, Richard (18 - ), (author of “ Wood-notes and 

Church-Bells,” London, 1873) . . .161 

Wordsworth, William (1770-1850) ... 187 



















































































Angel of the Annunciation. Carlo Dolci. 


[Uffizi Gallery, Florence.] 










I 


@U<jefu6. 

(OLD ENGLISH FORM.) 

Qlngcl of tl)c £orb beciimb unto ittarji, 
anb sl)c concciucb of tl]e iljoln ©Ijost. 

Hail, Mary, full of grace ! The Lord is with Thee; 
blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of 
thy womb, fesus. 

Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it done unto 
me according to Thy Word. 

Hail, Mary, etc. 

And the Word was made flesh and dwelt among us. 

Hail, Mary, etc. 


PRAYER 

We beseech Thee, O Lord, pour Thy Grace into our 
hearts, that as we have known the Incarnation of Thy Son 
Jesus Christ by the message of an Angel, so by His Cross ►J* 
and Passion we may be brought unto the Glory of His Resur¬ 
rection ; through the same Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. 


% 





Hark! dost thou hear the sound of the bell 
Pulsating in the air? 

Aye! its speech waking far and near, tell 
The call for Prayer: 

May all hearts that hear, obey, 

And thus turn Godwnrd, alway. 


Rachel A. La Fontaine. 





























































VAngelus. Jean-Fran^ois Millet. 






















“ £’$ngefue.” 

Anonymous. 

A CROSS the fields of toil there fall 
The notes of yonder sunset bell; 

To prayer its pleading accents call; 

The hard hands slacken at its spell, 

Dark faces bend in rapturous prayer, 

And God’s own presence calms the air. 

Hard was the task and long the day. 

Two hearts, that each the other’s toil 
Pity, what can they do but pray, 

Above the black and labored soil, 

When like a note from heaven’s own towers 
The soft bell wakes those evening hours ? 

Calm dewy eve and saffron sky 
And holy notes that breathe around 
Tell that the earth’s repose is nigh, 

Some eve an Angelus shall sound 
\Vith deeper welcome in their ears, 

To end life’s struggle, sweat and tears. 


5 











(2tngefue. 

By Francis Bret Harte. 


Dedicated to the Mission Dolores , in San Francisco , Cal. 

B ELLS of the past, whose long forgotten music 
Still fills the wide expanse, 

Tinging the sober twilight of the present 
With color of romance ! 

I hear you call and see the sun descending 
On rock and wave and sand, 

As down the coast the mission voices blending 
Girdle the heathen land ! 

Within the circle of your incantation 
No blight nor mildew falls ; 

Nor fierce unrest, nor lust, nor low ambition, 

Passes those airy walls. 

Born on the swell of your long waves receding, 

I touch the farther Past. 

I see the dying glow of Spanish glory, 

The sunset dream and last! 


6 



















before me the dome-shaped mission toWers, 

The white presidio, 

The swart commander, in his leathern jerkin, 

The priest, in stole of snow. 

Once more I see Portala’s cross uplifting 
Above the setting sun, 

And past the headland, northward, slowly drifting, 
The frightened galleon. 

O! solemn bells! whose consecrated masses 
Recall the faith of old; 

O! twinkling bells! that lulled with twilight music 
The spiritual fold. 

Your voices break, they falter in the darkness,— 
Break, falter and are still ;• 

And, veiled and mystic, like the Host descending, 
The sun sinks from the hill. 





<£$ree Qf)ectfe of f$e ^ngefue. 

BY HENRY NUTCOMBE OXENHAM. 

{From “The Sentence of Kaires ,” 1854.) 

T OLL at the hour of dawn 

When the busy day hath begun; 

That Christians may kneel in life’s early morn 
To Mary’s Incarnate Son; 

For at midnight hour Saint Gabriel spoke, 

And Christ was conceived ere morning broke. 

Hail, Mary, Full of grace. 

Toll at the mid-day hour: 

Let the bell toll loud and long; 

For the sun hath risen with a burning power, 

And the world and the flesh are waxing strong; 
Through the long hours of the sultry day, 

Stay with Thy children, Jesus, stay. 

Hail, Mary, Full of grace. 

Toll at the fall of eve: 

When the busy day is done; 

Lest Jesus thy soul in corruption leave, 

Call yet again on Mary’s Son; 

For at fall of eve, ’mid the gathering gloom 
His Body was laid in Saint Joseph’s tomb. 

Hail, Mary, Full of grace. 

Toll for each hour of prayer: 

Toll at morning, noon and night; 

Let the loud church-bells, like the angel, declare 
The dawn of the World’s true Light; 

Till the chimes that inspired our childhood’s faith 
Are the requiem rung o’er the couch of death. 

Hail, Mary, Full of grace. 


8 


:>.) r. 1 • 


> ‘, t < 


QC. $oe:(Jtt4rict QBeffte. 

BY CHARLES WARREN STODDARD. 

T dawn, the joyful choir of bells, 

In consecrated citadels, 

Flings on the sweet and drowsy air 
A brief, melodious call to prayer; 

For Mary, Virgin meek and lowly, 

Conceived of the Spirit Holy, 

As the Lord’s angel did declare. 

At noon, above the fretful street, 

Our souls are lifted to repeat 
The prayer, with low and wistful voice: 
“According to Thy word and choice, 

Though sorrowful and heavy laden, 

So be it done to Thy Handmaiden”; 

Then all the sacred bells rejoice. 

At eve with roses in the west, 

The daylight’s withering bequest, 

Ring, prayerful bells, while blossom bright 
The stars, the lilies of the night: 

Of all the songs the years have sung us, 

“The Word made Flesh has dwelt among us,” 
Is still our ever-new delight. 


9 


2$e (Pcepcr-Q0eff. 

BY ALFRED B. STREET. 

B UT Hark ! on his ear the pealing swell, 

The neighboring Recollets’ vesper-bell! 
And soon, through the open casement, song 
Comes like the blessing of peace along: 
Pouring on his heart like balm, 

Spreading a delicious calm, 

Hushing every thought of pain, 

“Mary Mother!” swelled the strain. 

He glanced without—the splendid moon 
Was climbing to her gorgeous noon; 

The massive church and convent bright 
Reared their tall summits in her light; 
Whilst on the court the castle laid 
The sharp-cut blackness of its shade; 

The sentry still with measured stride 
Passed and repassed the portal wide; 

All, all was beauty, light and peace, 

He felt his feverish throbbing cease. 

“Mary Mother !” seemed to bear 
Still upon the balmy air; 

Now to rise along the sky; 

Falling, swelling, echoing round, 

Till the moonlight changed the sound; 
Sound that told of heaven above, 

Sound that told of guardian love: 

Off from his bosom rolled the gloom, 

The wrath, the anguish, the despair, 

And in that still and lovely room 
The stern old soldier knelt in prayer. 


to 


tfti (Peeper 

BY SOPHIA MAY ECKLEY. 

Author of the “Oldest of the Old World,” i860. 

S OFTLY steals the wandering sunlight 
Through the stained oriel pane, 

Down upon the alter falling 
Like a soft celestial rain; 

Solemn breathes the strain of organ, 
Swelling in those arches dim, 

Till I fancy angels singing 
In the pauses of the hymn. 

Softer, softer breathes the organ, 

And the voices on the air, 

When the silence of devotion 
Clasps so many souls in prayer; 

Calm of ages softly veiling 
All the venerable pane, 

Calm of saints long, long departed, 

Seems to rest on us again. 

Hark ! the choir so softly singing, 

Sweet the Virgin-Mother’s song, 

Now the words of deep thanksgiving 
Rise and swell the roof along; 

Die away the prayerful voices, 

Dies the organ’s cadence then, 

And the solemn benediction 
Seems to breath a vast Amen ! 


II 



@U>e Qttaria. 

By George Gordon Lord Byron. 

Called forth at sunset by the bell ‘ 1 Angelas ’ ’ from Don Juan. 

A VE MARIA ! o’er the earth and sea, 

That heavenliest hour of heaven is worthiest thee ! 

Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour! 

The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft 
Have felt that moment in its fullest power 
Sink o’er the earth so beautiful and soft, 

While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, 

Or the faint, dying day,—hymn stole aloft, 

And not a breath crept through the rosy air, 

And yet the forest leaves seem’d stirr’d with prayer. 

Ave Maria! ’ t is the hour of prayer! 

Ave Maria ! ’t is the hour of love ! 

Ave Maria! may our spirits dare 
Look up to thine and to thy Son’s above! 

Ave Maria! Oh that face so fair! 

Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove,— 
What though ‘’t is but a pictured image?—Strike,— 
That painting is no idol,—’t is too like ! 


12 












(Utcffier of (Bob. 

Hymn. 

By Edgar Allan Poe. 

A T morn, at noon, at twilight dim, 

Maria ! thou hast heard my hymn ! 

In joy and woe, in good and ill, 

Mother of God, be with me still! 

When the Hours flew brightly by, 

And not a cloud obscured the sky, 

My soul, lest it should truant be, 

Thy grace did guide to thine and thee . 
Now, when the storms of Fate o’ercast 
Darkly my Present, and my Past, 

Let my Future radiant shine 
With sweet hopes of thee and thine ! 



13 



C0e (Peeper QSeff. 

(Trio.) 

{From St. Gualberts , addressed to George H. Burnett.') 

T HE Catholic who hears that Vesper bell, 

How’er employed, must send a prayer to heaven. 

In foreign lands I liked the custom well, 

For with the calm and sober thoughts of even 
It well accords ; and wert thou journeying there, 

It would not hurt thee, George ! to join that vesper prayer. 

Robert Southey. 


{From a poem “ A Picnic among the Ruins of OstiaP) 

And soft the pious Evening steals 
To watch her fiery father’s rest; 

A whispered Ave seems her voice. 

And one pure gem hangs on her breast. 

Mrs. Julia Ward Howe. 


Ring, ring, ring, 

So the strain drifts softly by, 

While the nuns at ev’ning sing 
And the night clouds veil the sky. 

H. W. Whayman. 


14 











[Exhibited at the “Jubilee Exhibition,” Berlin, 1886 .] 































@tt>e (jyidrid 

A VE MARIA ! ’t is the evening hymn 
Of many pilgrims on the land and sea ; 

Soon as the day withdraws, and two or three 
Faint stars are burning, all whose eyes are dim. 
With tears or watching, all of weary limb 
Or troubled spirit yield the bended knee, 

And find, O Virgin life, repose in thee. 

Parsons. 


As kneeling day by day, 

We to our Father duteous pray, 

So unforbidden we may speak 
An Ave to Christ’s Mother meek. 

Keble. 


l 7 





(tttdria. 

Hymn to the Virgin. 

From “ The Lady of the Lake.” Canto LLL. 
By Sir Walter Scott. 

A VE MARIA ! maiden mild, 

Listen to a maiden’s prayer; 

Thou canst hear, though from the wild; 

Thou canst save amid despair. 

Safe may we sleep beneath thy care, 
Though banished, outcast, and reviled— 
Maiden ! hear a maiden’s prayer, 

Mother, hear a suppliant child ! 

Ave Maria ! 


Ave Maria! undefiled! 

The flinty couch we now must share, 
Shall seem with down of eider piled, 

If thy protection hover there. 

The murky cavern’s heavy air 
Shall breathe of balm if thou hast smiled. 
Then, Maiden ! hear a maiden’s prayer; 
Mother, list a suppliant child ! 

Ave Maria! 

Ave Maria! stainless styled, 

Foul demons of the earth and air, 

From this their wonted haunt exiled, 

Shall flee before thy presence fair. 

We bow us to our lot of care, 

Beneath thy guidance reconciled ; 

Hear for a maid a maiden’s prayer, 

And for a father hear a child! 

Ave Maria! 


18 


(Peeper 5)gmn. 

From. “ Guy of the Temple .” 

By John Hay. 

OTHER of God ! as evening falls, 

Upon the silent sea, 

And shadows veil the mountain walls 
We lift our souls to thee ! 

From lurking perils of the night, 

The desert’s hidden harms, 

From plagues that waste, from blows that smite, 
Defend thy men-at-arms. 

Mother of God ! thy starry smile 
Still bless us from above ! 

Keep pure our souls from passion’s guile. 

Our hearts from earthly love ! 

Still save each soul from guilt apart 
As stainless as each sword ; 

And guard undimmed in every heart 
The image of our Lord! 

In desert march or battle’s flame, 

In fortress and in field, 

Our war-cry is thy holy name, 

Thy love our joy and shield ! 

And if we falter, let thy power 
Thy stern avenger be, 

And God forget us in that hour 
We cease to think of thee ! 

Mother of God ! the evening fades 
On wave and hill and lea, 

And in the twilight’s deepening shades 
We lift our souls to thee ! 

In passion’s stress—the battle’s strife, 

The desert’s lurking harms. 

Maid-Mother of the Lord of Life 
Protect thy men-at-arms! 


*9 




Z(>e (tttrgtn. 

(A Trio.) 

I S thy name Mary, maiden fair ? 

Such should, methinks, its music be ; 

The sweetest name that mortals bear, 

And she to whom it once was given, 

Was half of earth, and half of heaven. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 


Lines placed by Milton in the mouth of our Saviour; an 
allusion to the influence of His Mother in early life : 

“ These growing thoughts my mother soon perceiving, 

By words at times cast forth only rejoiced, 

And said to me apart, High are thy thoughts, 

O Son ; but nourish them, and let them soar 
To what height sacred virtue and true worth 
Can raise them, though above example high.” 


“St. Agnes’ Eve.” 

Numb were the Beadsman’s fingers, while he told 
His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 

Like pious incense from a censer old, 

Seem’d taking flight for heaven, without a death 
Past the sweet Virgin’s picture, while his prayer he saith, 

John Keats. 


20 




@tt>e (ttXaria. 

By Thomas O. Davis. 

ADING, still fading, the last beam is shining, 

Ave Maria ! day is declining ; 

Safety and innocence fly with the light, 

Temptation and danger walk forth in the night; 
From the fall of the shade, till the matin shall chime, 
Shield us from danger, and save us from crime. 


®.t>e (tttcma. 

VE MARIA, O hear when we call ! 

Mother of Him who is Saviour of all! 

Feeble and fearing, we trust in thy might; 

In doubting and darkness, thy love be our light; 

Let us sleep on thy breast while the night taper burns. 
And wake in thine arms when the morning returns. 

Ave Maria , audi nos! 



T HERE is a vision in the heart of each, 

Of justice, mercy, wisdom, tenderness 
To wrong and pain, and knowledge of their cure ; 
And these embodied in a woman’s form 
That best transmits them pure, as first received, 
From God above to mankind below. 

Robert Browning. 


12 



The Virghi of Ravenna. 
[Greek Bas-relief, Sixth Century,! 
































































































































































. 































«• 






























































/ 


[Convent of the Servi, F^oren ?e.] 




























































































































<for ffk (Jtafxt>ifg of f$e Q0. (p. (ttt. 

BY ADAM OF ST. VICTOR. 

H AIL, the Saviour’s Blessed Mother, 

Vase elect, above all other, 

Full of honor, Full of grace; 
Fore-ordained from years eternal, 

And, by Wisdom’s hand supernal, 

Wrought from Adam’s ruined race. 

O’er all palms the Palm up-bearing, 

None in Heaven thy place is sharing, 

None on earth is peer of thine; 

Praise of every generation, 

Thy pre-eminent vocation 

Makes thee all, in all, outshine. 

Jesus, Word of God most highest. 

Who to suppliants nought deniest, 

Who free grace to souls suppliest— 

Those who stand Thy Mother nighest. 

Thou preserve and make like Thee. 


Commemoration of (&nne. 

Mother of the Blessed Virgin Mary. 

BY MARY ANN THOMSON. 

W ATCHING with maternal pleasure 
Childhood’s path by Mary trod, 
Blessed Anne, how great a treasure 
Wert thou guarding for thy God ! 

Didst thou dream, O favored Mother, 
That for her whom thou didst bear, 
Waited honor that none other 

E’en of David’s house might share ? 

Didst thou marvel that so holy 
Child of woman born could be, 

As the little maiden lowly 
Meekly learning at thy knee ? 

Didst thou, as in art depicted, 

Teach her sacred scrolls to read, 
Where the advent stood predicted, 

Of the Christ, the promised seed? 

Learned she thus the Lord’s Anointed 
Should be born of David’s line 
Of a Virgin God appointed 
To bring forth the Child Divine? 

Little know we, but we cherish 
Thoughts of thee to Christ so near, 
Thy remembrance ne’er shall perish 
Mother of His Mother dear. 

Philadelphia , July, 1894. 


28 



Girlhood of Mary. 


Rossetti, 


[Exhibited in London in J849.] 














































> 









































































































































Dedication of the Virgin 


Vittore Carpaccio 





































































































©ebtcafton of f$e (Virgin. 

BY SIR JOHN CROKER BARROW. 

ND year by year, with Anne and Joachim, 

Within the Holy City Mary bowed her head, 

Before the altar of the cherubin, 

And sacred ark of Ever-living Bread— 

First borne by them, then led, then leading them 
With humble hands clasped child-like into theirs; 
Yet longing to pray, ever there, her prayers, 

Nor leave again her loved Jerusalem. 

For Mary had been vowed to God by them, 

So soon as she should be of riper years, 

And to His Temple in Jerusalem— 

A vow unspoken yet to outward ears, 

But hidden in the heart of Joachim, 

And treasured up in Anne’s maternal breast— 

Until presenting her before their priest, 

They spoke their thoughts—her mothei thus to him 
“I give to God the gift He gave to me.” 

Then scarce a pause, her father thus: 

“We give to God the child He gave to us. 

He wills it; and we will it; let it be. 

And Mary grew in beauty, day by day; 

And grew in grace—albeit, full of grace— 

In grace and beauty; knowing no decay, 

Ingrafted by her soul upon her face. 


33 




(Utarg’B (Sepoueafe. 

By Robert Southwell. 


T O save herself and Child from fatal lie, 

To end the web whereof the thread was spun, 

In marriage knots to Joseph she was tied— 
Unwanted works with wanted veils to hide. 

His Son, of Joseph’s Child the title bare : 

Just cause to make the Mother Joseph’s Wife; 

O blessed man, betrothed to such a Spouse, 

More blessed to live with such a Child in house. 

Though both in wedlock-bands themselves assured, 
Yet straight by vow they sealed their chaste intent; 
Thus had she virgin’s, wife’s and widow’s crown, 
And by chaste child-birth doubled her renown. 


34 



The Betrothal of the Virgm. 


C. C. Perkins. 


[From Orcagna’s Shrine, in Or San Michele.] 










































































































The Angel who came down lo earth with tidings of the peace, so many years wept for in vain. 









































A nnunciation. 


LOREN MONACO. 


(Utarg’e (tttrfue of 

By Dante Alighieri. 

T HE Angel (who came down to earth 

With tidings of the peace so many years 
Wept for in vain, that ope’d the heavenly gates 
From their long interdict) before us seem’d 
In a sweet act, so sculptur’d to the life, 

He look’d no silent image. One had sworn 
He had said “ Hail! ” for SHE was imag’d there, 
By whom the key did open to God’s love ; 

And in her act as sensible imprest 

That word: “ Behold the handmaid of the Lord, 

As figure seal’d on wax.” 


39 











(tttarg <xt tfyc °QDc(t. 


From the “ Golden Legend of the Nativity 
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


MARY. 


LONG the garden walk, and thence 
Through the wicket in the garden fence, 



I steal with pace, 

My pitcher at the well to fill, 

That lies so deep and cool and still 
In this sequestered spot. 

These sycamores keep guard around ; 
I see no face, I hear no sound, 

Save bubbling of the spring, 

And my companions who within 
The threads of gold and scarlet spin, 
And at their labor sing. 

THE ANGEL GABRIEL. 

Hail, Virgin Mary full of grace, 


MARY. 


Who is it speaking in this place, 
With such a gentle voice! 


40 






GABRIEL. 

The Lord of Heaven is with thee now 
Blessed among all women thou, 

Who art his holy choice ! 

MARY. 

What can this mean ? no one is near. 
And yet such sacred words I hear, 

I almost fear to stay. 

GABRIEL. 

Fear not, O Mary ! but believe ! 

For thou, a Virgin, shalt conceive 
A child this very day. 

Fear not, O Mary ! from the sky 
The majesty of the Most High ! 

Shall overshadow thee ! 

MARY. 

Behold the handmaid of the Lord ! 
According to the holy word, 

So be it unto me ! 



Santa Maria Virgene. Sassoferrato. 

£$e (Ptrgtn'e fLot>eftnm. 

By Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 

T HIS is that blessed Mary pre-elect, 

God’s Virgin. Gone is a great while, and she 
Dwelt young in Nazareth of Galilee. 

Unto God’s will she brought devout respect, 
Profound simplicity of intellect, 

And supreme patience. From her mother’s knee 
Faithful and hopeful, wise in charity, 

Strong in grave peace, in pity circumspect. 


42 







c UDoxb& (&bbrme& fo tf>c (Dtrgtn. 

By Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 

M IND’ST thou not (when June’s heavy breath 
Warmed the long days in Nazareth) 

That ere thou didst go forth to give 

Thy flowers some drink that they might live 

One faint night more amid the sands ? 

Far oft the trees were as pale wands 
Against the fervid sky ; the sea 
Sighed further off eternally, 

As human sorrow sighs in sleep. 

Then suddenly the awe grew deep, 

As of a day to which all days 
Were foot-steps in God’s secret ways : 

Until a folding sense, like prayer, 

Which is, as God is, everywhere, 

Gathered about thee ; and a voice 
Spake to thee without any noise, 

Being of the silence :—“ Hail,” it said ; 
“Thou that art highly favoured ; 

The Lord is with thee here and now; 

Blessed among all women thou.” 


43 





(ftnnunmfton. 

By John Keble. 

“ And the angel came in unto her and said , Hail , thou that 
art highly favoured, the Lord is with Thee ; blessed art thou 
among women A 

O THOU who deign’st to sympathize 
With all our frail and fleshly ties, 

Maker yet Brother dear, 

Forgive the too presumptuous thought, 

If, calming wayward grief, I sought 
To gaze on Thee too near. 

Yet sure ’twas not presumption, Lord, 

’Twas Thine own comfortable word 
That made the lesson known : 

Of all the dearest bonds we prove, 

Thou countest sons’ and mothers’ love 
Most sacred, most Thine own. 

When wandering here a little span, 

Thou took’st on Thee to rescue man, 

Thou hadst no earthly sire : 

That wedded love we prize so dear, 

As if our heaven and home were here, 

It lit in Thee no fire. 


44 


Annunciation. 


Guido Reni. 


[Chapel of the Quirinal, Rome.] 





















On no sweet sister’s faithful breast 
Wouldst Thou Thine aching forehead rest, 
On no kind brother lean : 

But who, O perfect, filial heart 
E’er did like Thee a true son’s part, 
Endearing, firm, serene ! 


Thou wept’st, meek maiden, mother mild, 
Thou wept’st upon thy sinless Child, 

Thy very heart was riven : 

And yet what mourning matron here 
Would deem thy sorrows bought too dear 
By all on this side Heaven ! 


A Son that never did amiss, 

That never sham’d His Mother’s kiss, 
Nor crossed her fondest prayer : 
Even from the tree He deign’d to bow 
For her His agonized brow, 

Her, His sole earthly care. 


Ave Maria ! blessed Maid ! 

Lily of Eden’s fragrant shade ! 

Who can express the love 
That nurtur’d thee so pure and sweet, 
Making thy heart a shelter meet 
For Jesus’ holy Dove. 


Ave Maria ! Mother blest, 

To whom, caressing and caress’d, 

Clings the Eternal Child ; 

Favor’d beyond Archangels’ dream, 
When first on thee with tenderest gleam, 
Thy new-born Saviour smil’d : 


47 


Ave Maria ! thou whose name 
All but adoring love may claim, 

Yet may we reach thy shrine ; 

For He, thy Son and Saviour, vows 
To crown all lowly lofty brows 
With love and joy like thine. 

Bless’d is the womb that bore Him—bless’d 
The bosom where His lips were press’d, 

But rather bless’d are they 
Who hear His word and keep it well, 

The living homes where Christ shall dwell, 
And never pass away. 





4 S 



(gUnunctafton of f$e QSfeeeeb (Virgin (tttarj. 

By Mrs. Felicia D. Hemans. 

L OWLIEST of women, and most glorified ! 

In thy still beauty sitting calm and lone. 

A brightness round thee grew, and by thy side, 

Kindling the air, a form ethereal shone, 

Solemn, yet breathing gladness. From her throne 
A queen had risen with more imperial eye, 

A stately prophetess of victory 
From her proud lyre had struck a tempest’s tone, 

For such high tidings as to thee were brought, 

Chosen of Heaven ! that hour : but thou, O ! thou ! 

Even as a flower with gracious rains o’erfraught, 

Thy Virgin head beneath its crown didst bow, 

And take to thy meek breast the All-Holy Word, 

And own thyself the Handmaid of the Lord. 


49 













Cfic @lnnunctatton. 

(Translated by J. M. Neale.) 
By Adam of St. Victor. 

G ABRIEL from the Heaven descending, 
On the faithful Word attending, 

Is in holy converse blending 

With the Virgin full of grace : 

That good word and sweet he plighteth 
In the bosom where it lighteth, 

And for Eva Ave writeth, 

Changing Eva’s name and race. 

At the promise that he sendeth 
God the Incarnate Word descendeth ; 
Yet no carnal touch offendeth 
Her the undefiled one, 

She without a father, beareth, 

She no bridal union shareth 
And a painless birth declareth 
That she bore the Royal Son. 

Tale that wondering search entices ! 
But believe—and that suffices ; 

It is not for man’s devices 

Here to pry with gaze unmeet: 
High the sign, its place assuming 
In the bush the unconsuming, 

Mortal, veil thine eyes presuming, 
Loose thy shoes from off thy feet. 


50 


Annunciation. 


Albertinllli. 


[Church of St, Maria, Nuova.] 
































































































































' 















































As the rod, by wondrous power, 
Moistened not by dew or shower, 

Bear the almond and the flower, 

Thus He came the Virgin’s Fruit: 
Hail the Fruit, O world, with gladness ! 
Fruit of joy and not of sadness ! 

Adam had not lapsed to madness 
Had he tasted of its shoot. 

Jesus, kind above all other, 

Gentle Child of gentle Mother, 

In the stable born our Brother, 

Whom the angelic hosts adore : 

He, once cradled in a manger, 

Heals our sin and calms our danger; 
For our life, to this world stranger, 

Is in peril evermore. 



53 





tftt @Ugef”e (JUeeeage to {Jttorj. 

By Author of “ Peep o’ Day.” 

I WONDER not that Mary first feared 
When Gabriel to her appeared ; 

How could she know he came to bring 
So sweet a message from his King? 

Full long the Son in heaven had stayed, 
Since first the promise had been made 
To shed His blood for Adam’s sin, 

And happiness for men to win. 

But yet her Son had ne’er forgot, 

And what He said He changed not; 

The time was come He should be born, 
And in this world should live forlorn. 

Mary shall be Thy mother dear, 

Who in her arms the child shall bear ; 

The Angel came this news to bring, 

And Mary listened wondering. 

And shall the Lord a poor maid choose, 
And all the great and rich refuse ? 

But God high honors love to place 
On those who humbly seek His face. 


54 



Annunciation. By Lucca della Robbia. 

<£$e (^Ununctafton. 

By Adelaide Anne Procter. 

H OW pure, and frail, and white, 

The snow-drops shine ! 

Gather a garland bright 
For Mary’s shrine. 

For, born of winter snows, 

These fragile flowers 
Are gifts to our fair Queen 
From spring’s first hours. 


55 









For on this blessed day, 

She knelt at prayer; 

When, lo ! before her shone 
An Angel! fair. 

“ Hail Mary ! ” thus he cried, 
With reverent fear: 

She, with sweet wondering eyes, 
Marvelled to hear. 

Be still, ye clouds of Heaven ! 

Be silent, Earth ! 

And hear an Angel tell 
Of Jesus’ birth. 

While she, whom Gabriel hails 
As full of grace, 

Listens with humble faith 
In her sweet face. 

Be still, Pride, War, and Pomp, 
Vain Hopes, vain Fears, 

For now an Angel speaks, 

And Mary hears. 

“ Hail Mary ! ” lo, it rings 
Through ages on ; 

“ Hail Mary ! ” it shall sound, 
Till Time is done. 

“ Hail Mary ! ” infant lips 
Lisp it to-day; 

“ Hail Mary ! ” with faint smile 
The dying say. 

“ Hail Mary! ” many a heart 
Broken with grief, 

In that angelic prayer 
Has found relief. 


56 


And many a half*-lost soul, 

When turned at bay, 

With those triumphant words 
Has won the day. 

Hail Mary, Queen of Heaven > 
Let us repeat, 

And place our snow-drop wreath 
Here at her feet. 



57 




JEjofg (flame of (tttarg. 

BY SAINT BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX. 


6 ‘ < A NCD the t)irgin’s name mas Jflarp.’ £et 
^ ns speak a fern morbs upon this name, 
signified ‘Star of the Sea’ anb snitetl) oerp toell 
the Jftaiben Hilother, mho map meetlp be likeneb nnto 
a Star. QlStar gioeth forth raps mithont attp l)arm to 
herself. ... © than, mhosoener thon art, that 

knomest thpself to be here not so mud) roalking npott 
firm gronnb, as battereb to anb fro, bn the gales anb 
storms of this life’s ocean, if thou monlbest not be 
onertohelmeb bp the tempest, keep tl)ine epes fheeb 
upon this Star’s clear shitting.” 


58 



The Virgin Appearing to St. Bernard. 

[La Badia, Florence.] 


Filippino Lippi. 











































































































- 




























! i ra® 


, 
















































The Salutation. 


Albertinelli. 


Uffizi Gallery, Florence.] 










The Visitation by Luca della Robbia. 

(DtBtfafton of Q0. Q?. (tttarg. 

By Edward Caswall. 

Hymn. 

W HITHER thus, in holy rapture 
Royal Maiden, art Thou bent! 

Why so fleetly art Thou speeding 
Up the mountain’s rough ascent ? 

Fill’d with the eternal Godhead ! 

Glowing with the Spirit’s flame ! 

Love it is that bears Thee onward, 

And supports thy tender flame. 

Lo ! thine aged cousin claims Thee, 
Claims thy sympathy and care ; 

God her shame from her hath taken ; 

He hath heard her fervent prayer. 

*>3 





Blessed Mothers ! joyful meeting ! 

Thou in her, the hand of God, 
She in Thee, with lips inspired, 
Owns the Mother of her Lord. 

Honor, glory, virtue, merit, 

Be to Thee, O Virgin, Son ! 
With the Father and the Spirit 
While eternal ages run. 





64 


> 



(tttetfdfton of (§. QO. (Jttdrg. 

“ From Guild of the Holy Cross.” 

A ND Blessed Mary rose and made her way 

To Judah, ’mid whose verdant hills there lay 
The home of Zacharias, there to greet 
With rev’rent salutation, and repeat 
To Saint Elizabeth her secret strange and sweet. 

Her simple salutation scarce was spoke, 

When from the aged woman’s lips there broke 
A burst of blessing. “Can it surely be 
The mother of my Lord should come to me ? 

The very babe beneath my heart doth welcome thee!” 

And Mary’s answer was that rapturous song 
Whose holy echoes our faint lips prolong. 

Magnificat! My Lord and Saviour sweet 
In Blessed Mary I Thy Presence greet. 


65 


(|tn£> (Ittdrg 

“ My soul doth magnify the Lord , 

And my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour. 

For He hath regarded the low estate of His hand¬ 
maiden : 


For, behold , from henceforth all generations shall 
call me blessed 


St. Luke. 






The Virgin in the Act of Writing the Magnificat. 

[Uffizi Gallery, Florence.] 


Botticelli. 










' 

. 
























■i 








































































































Jloly Night. 


[Gallery^ Dresden.] 


Correggio. 






The Nativity. Lorenzo di Credi. 

<£>ii t$e (ttlormng of Carafe Qtafttnfg, 

By John Milton. 

First Verse. 

T HIS is the month, and this the happy morn, 
Wherein the Son of Heav’n’s eternal King, 

Of wedded Maid and Virgin Mother born, 

Our great redemption from above did bring; 

For so the holy Sages once did sing— 

That He our deadly forfeit should release, 

And with His Father work us a perpetual peace. 


7i 









ffigmn on f8e (TXafit^ttg. 

By John Milton. 

Last Verse 

B UT see the Virgin blest 

Hath laid her babe to rest— 

Time is our tedious song should here have ending; 
Heaven’s youngest teemed star 
Hath fixed her polished car. 

Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending ; 

And all about the courtly stable 

Bright harnessed angels sit in order serviceable. 


2E)°fg famtfp. 

By Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe 

O CHILD of beauty rare— 

O mother chaste and fair— 

How happy seemed they both, so far beyond compare 
She in her infant blest, 

And He in conscious rest, 

Nestling within the soft, warm cradle of her breast! 
What joy that sight might bear 
To him who sees them there, 

If, with a pure and quiet untroubled eye, 

He looked upon the twain, like Joseph standing by. 


72 




Naiiviiy 


G. Dore 











































I 


r 






» 


* 
















4 





















\ 

% 

* 

V* 































s 






















4 
















Circumcision, 


Mantegna. 


[Uffizi Gallery, Florence.] 














£0e CtrcumctBton. 

By John Milton. 

O H, more exceeding love, or law more just: 
Just law indeed, but none exceeding love ! 


He who with all Heaven’s blazonry erewhile 
Entered the world, now bleeds to give us ease. 

Alas, how soon our sin 
Sore doth begin 
His Infancy to seize! 

For we, by rightful doom, remedless 
Were lost in death till He dwelt above, 

High-throned in secret bliss, for us frail dust 
Emptied His glory even to nakedness. 

i 


77 



Madonna , Child and Saints. Gtordano. 


($- Carof. 

By Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

T HE shepherds went their hasty way, 

And found the lonely stable-shed 
Where the Virgin Mother lay : 

And now they checked their eager tread, 
For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung, 

A mother’s song the Virgin Mother sung. 

They told her how a glorious light, 

Streaming from a heavenly throng, 

Around them shone, suspended night 
While sweeter than a mother’s song, 

Blest Angels heralded the Saviour’s birth, 
Glory to God on high ! and Peace on Earth. 


78 


She listened to the tale divine, 

And closer still the Babe she prest; 

And while she cried the Babe is mine ! 

The milk rushed faster to her breast: 

Joy rose within her like a summer’s morn. 

Peace, Peace on Earth ! The Prince of Peace is born. 

Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace, 

Poor, simple and of low estate ! 

That strife should vanish, battle cease, 

O why should this thy soul elate ? 

Sweet music’s loudest note, the poet’s story,— 

Didst thou ne’er love to hear of fame and glory ? 


And is not War a youthful king, 

A stately hero clad in mail ? 

Beneath his footsteps laurels spring ; 

Him Earth’s majestic monarch hail 
Their friend, their playmate, and his bold, bright eye 
Compels the maiden’s love confessing sigh. 


“ Tell this in some more courtly scene, 

To maids and youths in robes of state ! 

I am a woman poor and mean, 

And therefore is my soul elate. 

War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled, 

That from the aged father tears his child ! 


“A murderous friend, by fiends adored, 

He kills the sire and starves the son ; 

The husband kills, and from her board 
Steals all his widow’s toil had won ; 

Plunders God’s world of beauty; sends away 
All safety from the night, all comfort from the day. 


79 


“Then wisely is my soul elate, 

That strife should vanish, battle cease : 

I’m poor and of low estate, 

The mother of the Prince of Peace. 

Joy arises in me, like a summer’s morn : 

Peace, Peace on Earth ! the Prince of Peace is born.” 



80 



The Adoration of the Magi . Pinturicchio. 

(tttarg, 

By Harriet McEwen Kimball. 

M ORE than royal Guest He lay 

Where the gentle kine made way 
For the Christ-Child meek as they. 

Knelt the Magi round His bed, 

Bowed low each proudest head; 

Mary, Mother, pondered. 

Gold and frankincense and myrrh, 

They the wise and great confer, 

Jesus mild look up to her! 


$i 

















What her gift ? Than nothing less ! 
Oh that she might crown and bless 
Him whom kings shall King confess ! 

Pierced as with woes to come 
At His feet her soul lies dumb, 

Love, of all she hath, the sum ! 

Blessed among women, thou 
Who, exalted most, dost bow 
Lowliest among the low ! 


(patr of £urffe;©ot>ee. 

The Purification . 

By John B. Tabb. 

W HERE, Woman, is thy offering, 
The debt of law and love?” 

“ My Babe a tender nestling is, 
And I, the Mother-dove.” 



S 2 







The Mother of Our Lord. Frederick Goodall, A. R. A. 






' 









































































% 





















Presentation in the Temple. Fra Bartolommeo. 

[Museum, Vienna.] 





£8e (purification. 

By John Keble. 

“ Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God." 

B LESS’D are the pure in heart, 

For they shall see our God, 

The secret of the Lord is theirs, 

Their soul is Christ’s abode. 

Might mortal thought presume 
To guess an angel’s lay, 

Such are the notes that echo through 
The courts of Heaven to-day. 

Such the triumphal hymns 
On Sion’s Prince that wait, 

In high procession passing on 
Towards His temple-gate. 

Give ear, ye kings—bow down, 

Ye rulers of the earth— 

This, this is He ; your Priest by grace, 

Your God and King by birth. 

No pomp of earthly guards 
Attends with sword and spear, 

And all-defying, dauntless look 
Their monarch’s way to clear. 


87 

















Yet are there more with Him 
Than all that are with you— 

The armies of the highest Heaven, 

All righteous, good and true. 

Spotless their robes and pure, 

Dipp’d in the sea of light, 

That hides the unapproached shrine 
From men’s and angels’ sight. 

His throne, thy bosom blest, 

O Mother undefil’d, 

That throne, if aught beneath the skies, 
Beseems the sinless child. 

Lost in high thoughts, “ whose son 
The wondrous Babe might prove,” 

Her guileless husband walks beside, 

Bearing the hallow’d dove ; 

Meet emblem of his vow, 

Who, on this happy day, 

His dove-like soul—best sacrifice— 

Did on God’s altar lay. 

But who is he, by years 
Bow’d, but erect in heart, 

Whose prayers are struggling with his tears ? 
“Lord, let me now depart. 

“ Now hath Thy servant seen 
‘ ‘ Thy saving health, O Lord ; 

“ ’Tis time that I depart in peace, 

“ According to Thy word.” 

Yet swells the pomp : one more 
Comes forth to bless her God ; 

Full fourscore years, meek widow, she 
Her heavenward way hath trod. 


88 


She who to earthly joys 
So long had given farewell, 

Now sees, unlook’d for, Heaven on earth, 
Christ in His Israel. 

Wide open from that hour 
The temple-gates are set, 

And still the saints rejoicing there 
The holy Child have met. 

Now, count His train to-day, 

And who may meet Him, learn : 

Him child-like sires, meek maidens find, 
Where pride can nought discern. 

Still to the lowly soul 
He doth Himself impart, 

And for His cradle and His throne 
Chooseth the pure in heart. 



89- 


(fjrceenfafton of C^rtef 

OR 

Qpimftcctfton of §&t (tttarg f0e (Dtrgtn. 

Translated from the Latin., 

By Edward C. Caswall. 

O FT as Thee, my Infant Saviour, 

In Thy Mother’s arms I view, 

Straight a thousand thrilling raptures 
Overflow my heart anew. 

Happy Babe ! and happy Mother ! 

Oh, how great your bliss must be ! 

Each enfolded in the other, 

Sipping pure felicity! 

As the sun from darkness springing, 

Breathes a charm o’er Nature’s face; 

So the Child to Mary clinging 
Decks her with diviner grace. 

As the limpid dew descending, 

Lies impearl’d upon the rose ; 

So their mutual beauty blending, 

In transporting union glows. 

As when early spring advances, 

Flowers unnumbered throng the mead, 

Such the countless loving glances 
That in turn from each proceed. 

Lowly Jesus ! gentle Brother ! 

How I wish a smile from Thee, 

Meant for Thy immortal Mother, 

Only might alight on me ! 


90 



A Pastoral. Titian 

5)ie (tttotfter’e 3°2- 

By John White Chadwick. 

L ITTLE, I ween, did Mary guess, 

As on her arm her baby lay, 

What tides of joy would swell and beat, 
Through ages long, on Christmas Day. 

And what if she had known it all,— 

The awful splendor of his fame, 

The inmost heart of all her joy 
Would still, me-thinks, have been the same. 

The joy that every mother knows 
Who feels her babe against her breast: 

The voyage long is overpast, 

And now is calm and peace and rest. 

“ Art thou the Christ?” The wonder came 
As easy as her infant’s breath ; 

But answer none. Enough for her, 

That love had triumphed over death. 


9 i 














Holy Family. Solario. 


Zo f$c 3nfant ^eoue. 

By Edward C. Caswall. 


“ But see , the Virgin blest 
Hath laid her babe to rest.” 

Milton. 


S LEEP, Holy babe, 

Upon thy mother’s breast; 

Great lord of earth and sea and sky, 
How sweet it is to see thee lie 
In such a place of rest! 


Sleep, Holy babe, 

Thine angels watch around, 

All bended low with folded wings, 
Before the Incarnate King of Kings 
In reverent awe profound. 


92 









Sleep, Holy Babe, 

While I with Mary gaze 
In joy upon that face awhile, 

Upon the loving Infant smile, 

Which there divinely plays. 

Sleep, Holy Babe; 

Ah! take Thy brief repose : 

Too quickly will Thy slumbers break, 

And Thou to lengthened pains awake, 

That death alone shall close. 

Then must those hands 
Which now so fair I see, 

Those little pearly feet of Thine. 

So soft, so delicately fine, 

Be pierced and rent for me ! 

Then must that brow 
Its thorny crown receive; 

That cheek, more lovely than the rose, 

Be drenched with blood and marred with blows, 
That I thereby may live. 


£f)e (Utrgtn'e Crabfc JE)gmn. 

By Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 


Copiedfrom a print of the Virgin in a Roman Catholic Vi Hag e 
in Germany. 



LEEP, sweet Babe ! my cares beguiling : 
Mother sits beside Thee smiling: 

Sleep, my darling, tenderly ! 

If Thou sleep not, mother mourneth, 
Singing as her wheel she turneth : 

Come, soft slumber, balmily ! 


93 



Ctabfc ^ong of tf>e Qftrcjtn. 

By Lope Felix de Vega. 
Translated by Constantina E. Brooks. 

A ngels \ ye holy 

Who fly through the palm-groves, 
Hold quiet the branches— 

My Babe is asleep. 

Palm-groves of Bethlehem 
That sway in the tempest. 

The winds are loud moaning 
As through you they sweep; 
Restrain your wild fury. 

Move gently above us; 

Hold quiet your branches— 

My Babe is asleep. 

My Child, my divine One, 

Who came down from Heaven, 
What pangs He must suffer! 

What tears He must weep ! 

Oh let Him one moment 
Forget all His anguish, 

Hold quiet your branches— 

My Babe is asleep. 

The tempests blow ’round Him; 

Ye see that I have not 
Wherewith from my Darling 
The cold blasts to keep. 

O angels! ye holy 
Who o’er us are flying, 

Hold quiet the branches— 

My Babe is asleep. 


94 





Madonna adoring the Holy Infant . Franc rA. 

[Pinakothek, Munich.] 

























• —• -- - — 























- 

t 












r 









9 






























































Holy Family of the Beardless Joseph . Raphael. 

[Hermitage, St. Petersburg.] 






Holy Family. Schidone. 


Zfo Smttfg. 

By Frederick William Faber, D D. 

P RAISE, praise to Jesus, Mary, Joseph, 

The Three on earth most like to Thee in heaven 
Praise, praise to Jesus, Mary, Joseph, 

To whom these heavenly likenesses were given ! 
Come, Christians, come, sweet anthems weaving 
Come, young and old, come gay or grieving, 
Praise, praise with me 
Adoring and believing, 

God’s Family ? God’s Holy Family ! 

i 


99 






‘Mid Nazareth’s sequestered mountains 

How lovely was the Household of the Three, 

And by the desert’s crystal fountains 
What secret wonders did not angels see ! 

Come, Christians, come, sweet anthems weaving, 
Come, young and old, come gay or grieving, 

Praise, praise with me, 

Adoring and believing, 

God’s Family, God’s Holy Family ! 

Then by the dark Egyptian river 
Joseph, the Mother, and the marvellous Child, 

Heard the chill night-wind softly quiver 
In the tall palms or o’er the sandfields wild. 

Come, Christians, come, sweet anthems weaving, 
Come, young and old, come gay or grieving, 

Praise, praise with me, 

Adoring and believing, 

God’s Family, God’s Holy Family ! 

Sweet Family ! swift years are speeding ; 

Thrice ten have passed o’er Nazareth’s secret home ; 
Poor weary world ! it lies all bleeding : 

Why should it wait? Why should not Jesus come ? 
Come, Christians, come, sweet anthems weaving, 
Come, young and old, come gay or grieving, 

Praise, praise with me, 

Adoring and believing, 

God’s Family, God’s Holy Family ! 

Sweet Family ! thy charms detain Him ; 

Thou savest Him from an untimely woe : 

From men that would too soon have slain Him 
He hides in thee, God’s Paradise below ! 

Come, Christians, come, sweet anthems weaving, 
Come, young and old, come gay or grieving, 

Praise, praise with me, 

Adoring and believing, 

God’s Family, God’s Holy Family! 

ioo 



O House of Nazareth ! Earth’s Heaven ! 

Our households now are hallowed all by thee ; 
All blessings come, all gifts are given, 

Because of thy dear Earthly Trinity ; 

Come, Christians, come, sweet anthems weaving, 
Come, young and old, come gay or grieving, 
Praise, praise with me, 

Adoring and believing, 

God’s Family, God’s Holy Family ! 

Sing to the Three with jubilation ! 

Husbands and wives, parents and children, sing ! 
Sing to the house from which salvation 

Flows o’er your homes as from a hidden spring. 
Come, Christians, come, sweet anthems weaving, 
Come, young and old, come gay and grieving, 
Praise, praise with me, 

Adoring and believing, 

God’s Family, God’s Holy Family! 

Now praise, oh praise the sinless Mother, 

Praise to that Household’s gentle Master be ; 
And, with the Child whom we call Brother, 

Weep, weep for joy ot that dear Family ! 

Come, Christians, come, sweet anthems weaving, 
Come, young and old, come gay and grieving, 
Praise, praise with me, 

Adoring and believing, 

God’s Family, God’s Holy Family! 







The Childhood of Jesus. couillard. 

“ (tttotBer, °00f>cw'B CafWrj?” 

By J. H. Couillard. 

T HE humble Carpenter 
Of lowly Nazareth 
To Christ did minister, 

And watched His ev’ry breath. 

With joyful sufferance, 

By work and toil obscure, 

His needy sustenance 
He daily did procure. 




102 





Obeying Heaven’s rule, 

By him would Jesus stand, 

And with the heavy tool 
Would try His little hand. 

At the Child fondly gazed 
His Mother, smiling tears. 

And with her mind amazed, 

And her heart filled with fears. 

“ What dost thou make, my child?” 

“ A Cross, dear Mother, see,” 
The Infant said, and smiled, 

As beamed His eyes with glee. 

“ I love it, Mother dear ! 

Sweet Mother, tell, I pray, 

Is Mine hour drawing near? 

Mother, where’s Calvary?” 

In silent ecstacy 
The Virgin Mother stood, 

As Simeon’s prophecy 

Her Son Himself renewed. 

In spirit she then saw, 

With grief and cruel pangs, 

The fate which by Heaven’s law 
Upon that dear Son hangs. 

His agonizing trance— 

With bloody sweat bedewed 
The ground—the nails, the lance, 
The thorny crown she viewed. 

O, Mother pure, divine, 

He oft reminded thee, 

That blesc&d Son of thine, 

Of “Cross” and “Calvary,” 


103 



Madonna and Child. Carlo Dolci. 


(tttarg, tfe (Utot^er of 3 CCUC - 

By Mrs. Elizabeth Rundle Charles. 

A GE after age has called thee blest, 

Yet none hath fathomed all thy bliss •, 
Mothers, who read the secret best, 

Or angels,—yet its depths must miss. 

To dwell at home with Him for years, 
And prove His filial love thine own— 
In all a mother ; tender cares 
To serve thy Saviour in thy Son ; 


104 



The Madonna of St . Luke . 












































































v ' 




\ 












































To see before thee, day by day, 

That perfect life expand and shine, 

And learn by sight, as angels may, 

All that is holy and divine ! 

Well may we heap thy blessing up 
From age to age, from land to land, 

Since Christ Himself that brimming cup 
Gives to the lowliest Christian’s hand. 

The measure of a blessedness 
Yet by that measure unexpressed ; 

Sealing the mother’s joy with “ Yes,” 

The Christian’s with his “ rather blessed.” 



107 









Flight into Egypt. Pintukicchio. 

(Repoe en : £$e ££pBtnr. 

By Agnes Repplier. 

A LL day I watch the stretch of burning sand; 

All night I brood beneath the golden stars; 

Amid the silence of a desolate land, 

No touch of bitterness my reverie mars. 

Built by the proudest of a kingly line, 

Over my head the centuries fly fast; 

The secrets of the mighty dead are mine; 

I hold the key of a forgotten past. 

Yet, ever hushed into a rapturous dream, 

I see again that night. A halo mild 
Shone from the liquid moon. Beneath her beam 
Travelled a tired young Mother and her Child. 
Within mine arms she slumbered, and alone 
I watched the Infant. At my feet her guide 
Lay stretched o’er-wearied. On my breast of stone 
Rested the Crucified. 


108 














Repose in Egypt. L. Olivier Merson. 

[Owner, S. H. C >le, St. Louis.] 































The Return from Egypt. Peter Paul Rubens. 

[Blenheim Palace, London.] 


































































































z$c cm 3 c 6 ub . 

By Margaret Junkin Preston. 

LL placid and lovely the village 
Of Nazareth slept on the plain ; 

No husbandman toiled at the tillage, 

Nor reaped the ripe ears of the grain ; 

No vine-dressers wrought at their labors, 

Nor paused with their pruning-hooks by ; 

The slopes were as silent as Tabor’s, 

And Tabor was still as the sky. 

No voices of innocent riot 
In market-place, hostel, or hut; 

The hum of the craftsman was quiet, 

The door of the synagogue shut. 

No Alephs and Beths were heard swelling 
From the school of the scribe, by the wall ; 

And Joseph the carpenter’s dwelling 
Was hushed as the publican’s stall. 

’Twas the week of the Passover : only 
The aged, the sickly, the blind, 

The tottering children, and lonely 
Young mothers, had tarried behind. 

To the sacredest Feast of the nation, 

Through the paths that their fathers had trod, 

All others, with paschal oblation, 

Had gone to the city of God. 


H3 


And Mary—to every beholder, 

Her face touched with wistfulest dole 
(Remembering what Simeon had told her 
Of the sword that should pierce through her soul), 
With faith yet too steadfast to falter, 

Though sorely with mysteries tried, 

Midst the worshipers stood at the altar 
With Jesus, the child, at her side. 


The seven days’ festival ended,— 

Rites finished for people and priest, 

The throngs from the Temple descended, 
And homeward set face from the Feast. 
And neighbor had converse with neighbor, 
Unwonted and simple and and free, 

As northward they journeyed toward Tabor, 
Or westward they turned to the sea. 

But not till the night dews were falling, 

Did Mary, oft questioning, find, 

As children to children were calling, 

That Jesus had lingered behind. 

He vex Her?—the mother that bore Him ?— 
Or veiled it some portent or sign ; 

For oft had she trembled before Him,— 

Her human too near His divine. 

She sought midst her kinsfolk, whose pity 
Grew tender to look on her grief; 

Then back through the streets of the city 
She hastened, yet found not relief. 

Thus searching, a marvellous story 
Her ear and her senses beguiling,— 

“The Rabbis, gray-bearded and hoary, 

In the Temple are taught by a child !” 


114 



Madonna and Childs 

[Pitti Gallery, Florence.] 


Murillo. 














































Mary and Joseph conduct Jesus Home. Peter Paul Rubens. 
[Metropolitan Museum of Art, formerly at Antwerp.] 











Oh marvel of womanly weakness! 

She finds Him,—fears, sorrows, subside; 
And Mary, the angel of meekness, 

In petulance pauses to chide :— 

“ Son, wherefore thus tarry to gather 
About Thee the curious throng, 
Unheeding, the while, that Thy father 
And I have been seeking Thee long.” 

A look so reproachingly tender, 

It awed while it melted her eye, 

He cast, as He hastened to render 
Subjection, and filial reply :— 

“Nay, wherefore perplexed and pursuing ? 

Dost thou too, my mother, forget, 

And wist not the Son must be doing 
The work that His Father hath set!” 



TTCt 





Mater Amabilis. 


Murillo. 


J)e <B>rett> tn Wtefcom. 

By Marion Ames Taggart. 

H E grew in wisdom day by day, 

Close nestling at His‘Mother’s knee; 

She taught His baby lips to pray, 

Her own voice joining reverently. 

From her He learned our human speech, 
The lessons of the birds and flowers, 
Such simple lore as she could teach, 
Through all those precious hidden hours. 

rso 












And when the stars shone overhead, 

And night fell soft on Nazareth, 

Held fast within her arms, He read 
The sacred scrolls with bated breath. 

Sometimes He paused, with tiny hand 
Laid softly on His Mother’s cheek; 

She thought a thrill passed o’er the land, 

To hear the words His tongue would speak. 

Gazing within His eyes, she saw 
His wisdom growing day by day; 

In turn He taught her Israel’s law— 

Her Child, who loved not childhood’s play. 

But deep within her mother-heart 
She hid His wisdom through the years, 
And when He slept she sat apart, 

And pondered it ’mid falling tears. 



121 




The Virgin and Child . Guido Reni. 

£$e Q)trgtn (Utdrg fo f$e Cfitfb 3eeue. 

By Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

S LEEP, sleep, mine Holy One ! 

My flesh, my Lord !—what name? I do not know 
A name that seemeth not too high or low, 

Too far from me or Heaven. 

My Jesus, that is best! that word being given 
By the majestic angel, whose command 
Was softly as a man’s beseeching said, 

When I and all the earth appear to stand 
In the great overflow 

Of light celestial from his wings and head. 

Sleep, sleep, my saving One ! 



122 



Madonna a?id Child. Carlo Dolci. 

[Corsini Gallery, Rome.] 


























I 








































































































And art Thou come for saving, baby-browed 
And speechless Being,—art Thou come for saving ? 
The palm that grows beside our door is bowed 
By treadings of the low wind from the south,— 

A restless shadow through the chamber waving : 

Upon its bough a bird sings in the sun ; 

But Thou, with that close slumber on Thy mouth, 

Dost seem of wind and sun already weary;— 

Art come for saving, O my weary One ? 

Perchance this sleep that shutteth out the dreary 
Earth-sounds and motions, opens on Thy soul 
High dreams on fire with God; 

High songs that make the pathways where they roll 
More bright than stars do theirs; and visions new 
Of Thine eternal Nature’s old abode. 

Suffer this mother’s kiss, 

Best thing that earthly is, 

To glide the music and the glory through, 

Nor narrow in Thy dream the broad upliftings 
Of any seraph wing ! 

Thus, noiseless, thus. Sleep, sleep, my dreaming Om 
The slumber of His lips me-seems to run 
Through my lips to mine heart, to all its shiftings 
Of sensual life, bringing contrariousness 
In a great calm. I feel I could lay down 
As Moses did, and die,—and then live most. 

I am ’ware of you, heavenly Presences, 

That stand with your peculiar light unlost, 

Each forehead with a high thought for a crown 
Unsunned i’ the sunshine ! I am ’ware. Yet throw 
No shade against the wall! How motionless 
Ye round me with your living statuary, 

While through your whiteness, in and outwardly, 
Continual thoughts of God appear to go, 

Like light’s soul in itself. I bear, I bear. 

To look upon the dropt lids of your eyes 



Though their external shining testifies 
To that beatitude within which were 
Enough to blast an eagle at his sun. 

I fall not on my sad clay face before ye,— 
I look on His. I know 
My spirit which dilateth with the woe 
Of His mortality, 

May well contain your glory. 

Yea, drop your lids more low. 

Ye are but fellow-worshippers with me ! 
Sleep, sleep, my worshipped One ! 


Madonna and Childs Murillo. 

We sate among the stalls at Bethlehem. 

The dumb kine, from their fodder turning them, 
Softened their horned faces 
To almost human gazes 

Toward the newly-Born. 


126 



The simple shepherds from the star-lit brooks 
Brought visionary looks, 

As yet in their astonished hearing, rung 
The strange, sweet angel-tongue: 

The magi of the East, in sandals worn, 

Knelt reverent, sweeping round, 

With long, pale beards, their gifts upon the ground, 

The incense, myrrh and gold 

These baby-hands were impotent to hold. 

So, let alt earthlies and celestials wait 
Upon Thy royal state. 

Sleep, sleep, my kingly One ! 

I am not proud,— meek angels, ye invest 
New meekness to hear such utterance rest 
On mortal lips,—“ I am not proud,”—not proud! 
Albeit in my flesh God sent His Son, 

Albeit over Him my head is bowed 

As others bow before Him, still mine heart 
Bows lower than their knees. O centuries 
That roll, in vision, your futurities 
My future grave athwart,— 

Whose murmurs seem to reach me while I keep 
Watch o’er this sleep,— 

Say of me as the Heavenly said, “Thou art 
The blessedest of women !”—blessedest, 

Not holiest, not noblest, no high name 

Whose height misplaced may pierce me like a shame, 

When I sit meek in heaven ! 

For me,—for me,— 

God knows that I am feeble like the rest!— 

I often wandered forth more child than maiden 
Among the midnight hills of Galilee, 

Whose summits looked heaven-laden; 

Listening to silence, as it seemed to be 
God’s voice, so soft, yet strong, so fain to press 


Upon my heart as Heaven did on the height, 

And waken up its shadows by a light, 

And show its vileness by a holiness. 

Then I knelt down most silent like the night, 

Too self-renounced for fears. 

Raising my small face to the boundless blue 

Whose stars did mix and tremble in my tears, 
God heard them falling after, with—His dew. 

So, seeing my corruption, can I see 
This Incorruptible now born of me, 

This fair new Innocence no sun did chance 
To shine on (tor even Adam was no child), 
Created from my nature all defiled, 

This mystery, from out mine ignorance,— 

Nor feel the blindness, stain, corruption more 
Than others do, or /did heretofore?— 

Can hands wherein such burden pure has been 
Not open with the cry, “Unclean, unclean!” 

More oft than any else beneath the skies ? 

Ah, King, ah, Christ, ah Son ! 

The kine, the shepherds, the abased wise, 

Must all less lowly wait 
Than I, upon Thy state ! 

Sleep, sleep, my kingly One ! 

Art Thou a King, then? Come, His universe, 
Come, crown me Him a king. 

Pluck rays from all such stars as never fling 
Their light where fell a curse, 

And make a crowning for this kingly brow!— 
What is my word?—Each empyreal star 
Sits in a sphere afar, 

In shining ambuscade: 

The child-brow, crowned by none, 

Keeps its unchildlike shade. 

Sleep, sleep, my crownless One ! 


128 



Madonna oj the Veil\ 


Raphael. 


[Louvre, Paris.] 













Madonna, Child and Angels. Carlo Maratta. 


[Corsini Gallery, Rome.] 






Unchildlike shade ! No other babe doth wear 
An aspect very sorrowful, as Thou.— 

No small babe-smiles my watching heart has seen, 

To float like speech the speechless lips between; 

No dovelike cooing in the golden air, 

No quick, short joys of leaping babyhood. 

Alas, our earthly good, 

In heaven thought evil, seems too good for Thee. 

Yet sleep, my weary One. 

And then the drear, sharp tongue of prophecy, 

With the dread sense of things which shall be done, 
Doth smite me inly, like a sword—a sword?— 

(That “Smites the Shepherd!”) Then, I think aloud. 
The words—“despised,”—“rejected,”—every word 
Recoiling into darkness as I view 
The Darling on my knee. 

Bright angels, move not, lest ye stir the cloud 
Betwixt my soul and His futurity! 

I must not die, with mother’s work to do, 

And could not live, and see. 

It is enough to bear 
This Image still and fair; 

This Holier in sleep 
Than a saint at prayer; 

This aspect of a Child 

Who never sinned or smiled; — 

This Presence in an Infant’s face; 

This Sadness most like love; 

This Love than love more deep; 

This Weakness like omnipotence 
It is so strong to move. 

Awful is this watching place, 

Awful what I see from hence,— 

A King without regalia, 

A God without the thunder, 


133 


A Child without the heart for play; 

Ay, a Creator, rent asunder 
From His first glory and cast away 
On His own world, for me alone 
To hold in hands created, crying “Son!” 

That tear fell not on Thee, 

Beloved, yet Thou stirrest in Thy slumber! 

Thou, stirring not for glad sounds out of number, 
Which through the vibratory palm-trees run 
From summer wind and bird, 

So quickly hast Thou heard 
A tear fall silently ? 

Wak’st Thou, O loving One?— 




IJ4 




Christ Disputing in the Temple. w, c. T. dobson. 

Cfyxist tn f0e £empfe- 

By John Donne. 

W ITH His Mother, who partakes thy woe, 

Joseph, turn back: see, where your Child doth sit 
Blowing, yea, blowing out those sparks of wit, 
Which Himself on those doctors did bestow. 

The Word but lately could not speak; and lo, 

It suddenly speaks wonders. Whence comes It, 
That All which was, and All which would be, writ 
A shallow-seeming Child should deeply know? 

His Godhead was not soul to His Manhood; 

Nor had time mellowed Him to this ripeness; 

But as for one which hath long tasks, ’tis good 
With the sun to begin his business, 

He, in His age’s morning, thus began 
miracles exceeding power of man, 


*35 



"Woman’s Christmas. 

By Lucy Larcom. 

OT Mary, unto thee alone, 

Though blessed among women thou ; 

Not thine, nor yet thy nation’s own, 

With that large glory on His brow. 

Thou bendest in awe above the Child, 

The cradled Hope of all the race ; 

The perfect One, the undefiled, 

A saved world shining in His face. 

Thou bendest in awe ; we bend with thee, 
Forgetting by-gone loneliness, 

Our hearts’ desire fulfilled is He ; 

Our solitude He comes to bless. 

By the close bond of womanhood, 

By the prophetic mother-heart, 

Forever visioning unshaped good, 

Mary, in Him we claim our part. 

This baby’s face is as the sun 
Upon the dimness of our way ; 

This child’s Arm ours to lean upon 
When mortal strength and hope decay : 

Our path, erewhile so desolate, 

His dear beatitudes adorn ; 

Earth is a heavenward-opening gate 
Since unto us this Child is born. 

x 36 



The Tint Christinas. 


W. A. Bcuguereau. 






















Born unto us who vainly seek 
The fair ideal of our dreams 

Among its mockeries, blurred and weak, 

He crowns the manhood He redeems. 

To us, who trust that men will grow 
Grander than thought or guess of ours, 

When this pure Life through theirs shall glow, 
This health divine stir all their powers. 

O Hebrew maiden, even to us, 

Thy sisters, scattered over earth, 

God sent this Infant glorious, 

This one divinely-human birth. 

What were our poor lives worth, if thence 
Flowered forth no world-perfuming good, 

No love-growth of Omnipotence ? 

The childless share thy motherhood. 

All holy thoughts, all prayer and praise, 
Wherewith our Christ hath made life sweet, 

Through us undying voices raise, 

One Name—His Father’s to repeat. 

Breathe, weary women everywhere, 

The brightness of this heavenly morn ! 

The blessing that He is, we share ; 

For unto us this Child is born ! 


139 


tk (Utof^er’e ^gmn. 

By William Cullen Bryant. 

“ Blessed art thou among women.” 

L ORD, who ordainest for mankind 
Benignant toils and tender cares, 

We thank thee for the ties that bind 
The mother to the child she bears. 

We thank thee for the hopes that rise 
Within her heart, as, day by day, 

The dawning soul, from those young eyes, 

Looks with a clearer, steadier ray. 

And grateful for the blessing given 
With that dear infant on her knee, 

She trains the eye to look to heaven, 

The voice to lisp a prayer to thee. 

Such thanks the blessed Mary gave 
When from her lap the Holy Child, 

Sent from on high to seek and save 
The lost of earth, looked up and smiled. 

All-Gracious ! grant to those who bear 
A mother’s charge the strength and light 
To guide the feet that own them care 
In ways of Love and Truth and Right. 

[Copyright by D. Appleton & Co.; reprinted by permission 
of the publishers.] 


140 





Madonna and Child. 


Carlo Dolci. 


[Pitti .Gallery, Florence.] 
























































































































































































































































































































Holy Family. 


Signorelli. 


[Uffizi Gallery, Florence ] 




^ccnce dr tt)e ^ofg ffjjon.e. 

By Clarence A. Walworth. 

NE evening the Holy Family 
I Were gathered in the Egyptian land, 

At Cairo, a poor and fugitive band, 

Yet richly blest in their poverty— 

Jesus and Mary and Joseph—these three. 

Then Joseph the Boy to speech beguiled: 

“Say Mary; say Mary, dear Child.” 

The Infant’s voice was launched in the air; 

And the name was spoken so soft and clear, 
Speech never sounded in mother’s ear 
So musical and fair. 

“Say Father, now,” then Joseph prayed: 

And “Abba, Abba, Abba,” He said. 

The title sprang from that velvety tongue, 

So sweet and full of cheer, 

The choirs of paradise checked their song, 

And leaned on their harps to hear. 

The voice was distant; yet not a throat 
In all that throng could sound a note. 

To make the distant seem so near. 

Then a silence dropped on the Patriarch’s soul; 
It lasted long, 

Like the silence that follows a sweet song 
Which has filled the spirit full, 

And every sense beguiled. 

The Boy-God looked up at His Mother and srnil 
And whispered: “This silence will not end; 

’Tis My gift to a beloved Friend.” 

Now the life of Joseph has been recorded, 

And justice full to his love awarded; 

Yet not one word from his mouth is penned. 

The sacred record shows thus always, 

To reader, or hearer, 

That silent duty is counted dearer 

Than the loud tongue of praise. 


145 


(Utdrg. 

By Carl Johann Philipp Spittia. 

“ But Mary kept all these things in her heart” 

T HE cradle which the world had drest, 

To be her Lord ; first place of rest, 

Is this poor manger hard and rude, 

The little Child sleeps on the wood, 

What dost thou ponder, Mary ? 

The Lord of Glory’s dying bed 
Two rafters that are crossways laid ; 

One touches earth, but points the skies, 
While right and left the other lies, 

Why art thou weeping, Mary ? 

To thee this wondrous Child was born, 
From thee this sinless Son was torn ; 

Yet, had the Babe for thee not smiled; 
Yet, had the Cross not claimed thy Child 
Whatwert thou now, O Mary? 


146 


£. 


(ft (tttoffler'e ^Secret. 

By Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

H OW sweet the sacred legend—if unblamed 

In my slight verse such holy things are named, 

Of Mary’s sweet hours of hidden joy 
Silent, but pondering on her wondrous boy ! 

Ave Maria ! Pardon if I wrong 

Those heavenly words that shame my earthly song < 

The choral host had closed the Angel’s strain, 

Sung to the listening watch on Bethlehem’s plain, 

And now the shepherds, hastening on their way, 

Sought the still hamlet where the Infant lay, 

They passed the fields that gleaming Ruth toiled o’er,— 
They saw afar the ruined threshing-floor 
Where Moab’s daughter, houseless and forlorn, 

Found Boaz slumbering by his heaps of corn ; 

And some remembered how the holy scribes, 

Skilled in the lore of every jealous tribe, 

Traced the warm blood of Jesus’s royal son 
To that fair alien bravely wooed and won. 

Twelve years had passed ; the boy was fair and tall, 
Growing in wisdom, finding grace with all. 

The maids of Nazareth, as they stooped to fill 
Their balanced urns beside the mountain rill, 

The gathered matrons, as they sat and spun, 

Spoke in soft words of Joseph’s quiet son. 

No voice had reached the Galilean vale 
Of star-vale kings, or awe-struck shepherd’s-tale ; 

In the meek, studious child they only saw 
The future Rabbi learned in Israel’s law. 


147 


So grew the boy, and now the frost was near 
When at that Holy Place the tribes appear. 

Scarce had the home-bred child of Nazareth seen 
Beyond the hills that girt the village green ; 

Snatched from the steel of Herod’s murdering hands, 
A babe, close folded to his mother’s breast, 

Through Edom’s wilds he sought the sheltering West. 

Then Joseph spake : Thy boy hath largely grown ; 

So fared they on to seek the promised sign, 

That marked the anointed heir of David’s line. 

At last, by forms of earthly semblance led, 

They found the crowded inn, the oxen’s shed. 

No proof was there, no glory shore around 

On the coarse straw, that strewed the reeking ground ; 

One dim retreat a flickering torch betrayed— 

In that poor cell the Lord of Life was laid ! 

The wandering shepherds told their breathless tale 
Of the bright choir that woke the sleeping vale ; 

Told how the shining multitude proclaimed, 

“ J°y, joy to earth ! behold the hallowed morn ! 

In David’s city Christ, the Lord, is born ! 

Glory to God! let angels shout on high ! 

Good-will to men ! the listening earth reply !” 

They spoke with hurried words and accents wild ; 
Calm in His cradle slept the heavenly child ; 

No trembling word the mother’s joy revealed,— 

One sigh of rapture, and her lips were sealed, 

But kept these words to ponder in her heart. 

Weave him fine raiment, fitting to be shown ; 

Fair robes beseem the pilgrim, as the priest: 

Goes he not with us to the holy feast? 


148 


Twelve-year-old Jestcs on His way to Jerusalem. Otto Mengelbei<g. 












































































































































































































































































i 
























































Christ Disputing with the Doctors. Bernardino Luini. 

[Sanctuary of the Yirgiu, Saronno.] 





















And Mary called the flaxen fibres white ; 

Till ere she spun ; she spun till morning light 
The thread was twined ; its parting meshes through 
From hand to hand her restless shuttle flew, 

Till the full web was wound upon the beam ; 

Love’s curious toil, vest without a seam ! 

They reached the Holy Place, fulfill the days 
To solemn feasting given, and grateful praise. 

At last they turn, and far Moriah’s height 
Melts in the southern sky and fades from sight. 

All day the dusty caravan has flowed 
In devious trails along the winding road ; 

(For many a step their homeward path attends, 

And all the sons of Abraham are as friends.” 

Evening has come,—the hours of rest and joy, 

Hush ! hush ! That whisper,—“ Where is Mary’s boy ?” 

O weary hour ! O aching days that passed 
Filled with strong fears each wilder than the last, 

The soldier’s lance, the fierce centurion’s sword, 

The crushing wheels that whirl some Roman lord, 

The midnight crypt that sucks the captive’s breath, 
The blustering sun on Hinnom’s vale of death ! 

Thrice on his cheek had rained the morning light; 
Thrice on his lips the mildewed kiss of night, 

Crouched by a sheltering column’s shining plinith, 

Or stretched beneath the odorous terebinth. 

At last, in desperate mood, they sought once more 
The Temple’s porches, searched in vain before ; 

They found him seated with the ancient men,— 

The grim old rufflers of the tongue and pen,— 

Their gray beards slanting as they turned to hear, 

Lost in half-envious wonder and surprise 
That lips so fresh should utter words so wise. 


T 53 


And Mary said,—as one who, tried too long, 

Tells all her grief and half her sense of wrong,— 

“ What is this thoughtless thing which thou had done ? 
Lo ! we have sought thee sorrowing, O my son : 

Few words he spake, and scarce of filial tone, 

Strange w'ords, their sense a mystery yet unknown : 
Then turned with them and left the holy hill, 

To all their mild commands obedient still. 

The tale was told to Nazareth’s sober men, 

And Nazareth’s matrons told it oft again ; 

The maids retold it at the fountain’s side, 

The youthful shepherds doubted or denied ; 

It passed around among the listening friends, 

With all that fancy adds and fiction lends, 

Till newer marvels dimmed the young renown 
Of Joseph’s son, who talked the Rabbis down. 

But Mary, faithful to its lighted word, 

Kept in her heart the saying she had heard, 

Till the dread hour that rent the Temple’s veil, 

When shuddering earth confirmed the wondrous tale, 
Youth fades ; love droops ; the leaves of friendship fall 
A Mother’s secret hope outlives them all. 



154 




















(tttarg, f0e (Utoffler of 3 e0UB - 

By Henry William Baker. 

S HALL we not love thee, Mother dear, 
Whom Jesus loves so well ? 

And, to His glory, year by year, 

Thy joy and honor tell ? 

Bound with the curse of sin and shame 
We helpless sinners lay, 

Until in tender love He came 
To bear the curse away. 

And thee He chose from whom to take 
True flesh His Flesh to be ; 

_ In It to suffer for our sake, 

By It to make us free. 

Thy Babe He lay upon thy breast, 

To »hee lie cried for food ; 

Thy gentle nursing soothed to rest 
Th’ Incarnate Son of God. 


155 



















O wondrous depth of 4 grace Divine 
That He should bend so low ! 

And, Mary, oh, what joy ’twas thine 
In His dear love to know ; 

Joy to be Mother of the Lord, 

And thine the truer bliss, 

In every thought, and deed, and word, 
To be forever His, 

And as He loves thee, Mother dear, 
We, too, will love thee well ; 

And, to His glory, year by year, 

Thy joy and honor tell. 

Jesus, the Virgin’s Holy Son, 

We praise Thee and adore, 

Who art with God, the Father One, 
And Spirit evermore. 


















Zo t()C (pir^tn. 


By Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 

S OUL, is it Faith, or Love, or Hope, 

That lets me see her standing up 
Where the light of the Throne is bright? 
Unto the left, unto the right, 

The cherubim, arrayed, conjoined, 

Float inward to a golden point, 

And from between the seraphim, 

The glory issues for a hymn. 

O Mary, Mother, be not loth 
To listen thou whom the stars clothe, 
Who seest and mayst not be seen, 

Hear us at last, O Mary, Queen ! 

Into our shadow bend thy face, 

Bowing thee from the secret place, 

O Mary, Virgin, full of grace ! 





157 








(Bractoue ^on of (Utarg, 

By Henry Hart Milman. 

Sixteenth Sunday After Trinity. 

HEN our heads are bow’d with woe, 
When our bitter tears o’erflow ; 

When we mourn the lost, the dear, 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 

Thou our throbbing flesh hast worn, 
Thou our mortal griefs hast borne, 
Thou hast shed the human tear : 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear! 

When the sullen death-bell tolls 
For our own departed souls! 

When our final doom is near ! 

Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 

Thou hast bow’d the dying head ; 
Thou the blood of life hast shed ; 

Thou hast fill’d a mortal bier: 

Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 

When the heart is sad within 
With the thought of all its sin ; 

When the spirit shrinks with fear, 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 

Thou the shame, the grief hast known, 
Though the sins were not thine own, 
Thou hast deign’d their load to bear, 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear \ 


153 






































- 












































































































































































Shadow of Death. W. Holman Hunt. 


[Manchester Art Gallery.] 



Zt>e |=$di>otP of t$t CroeB. 

By Richard Wilton. 

In Holman Hunt's picture , Mary starts at the Shadow of the 
Cross thrown on the wallfrom the Figure of fesus. 

T HAT Shadow dear upon the wall, 

Where level rays of evening fall, 

And bid us view the Lord uprear 
His tired arms in the Sunset clear— 

Let it console us, not appal; 

That Shadow has a voice for all 
Whom other shadows may enthral; 

It soothes away our mortal fear. 

That Shadow dear. 

Invite its presence, hear its call, 

Dwellers in cottage, or in hall: 

Rest not until the sign appear, 

Then sit beneath it all the year; 

It whispers peace, whate’er befal— 

That Shadow dear. 


161 





(tttatg af Cana of (Baftfee. 

By Gerard Moultrie. 

In silent thought 

He sate beside the Mother; and around 
The revellers were merry, thinking nought 
Of Him: and high the sound 
Of mirth and happiness and festal glee 
Rose from the village hall of humble Galilee. 

She gazed on Him; 

And knew that, underneath that fragile frame, 

The God who sits between the cherubim, 

Girded about with flame, 

Restrained his swelling Godhead, in the hem 
Of that weak fleshly garb revealed at Bethlehem. 

She watched His eye; 

And saw it kindle when the wine ran low; 

As oft-times at her breast in infancy, 

In still and steady glow, 

Her God had gazed on her from that calm face, 

And eye to eye her soul refreshed its stores of grace. 

“ ’Tis not yet come, 

Woman, Mine hour, when I must tread alone 
The wine-press of My vintage. Though My home 
I leave to seek Mine Own, 

The Woman’s Seed, ere ripened, must abide 
The resurrection Sun of God’s warm Easter-tide.” 

“Fill full the cup”: 

And the thin water blushes into wine, 

To find its meaner substance brimming up 
Round the creative Vine; 

And the low whisper steals around the board: 

“Our Guest is God; ’tis our Creator; ’tis the Lord.” 


16? 


Marriage ai Cana. Paul Veronese 



































































































































Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane. Paul Delaroche. 





(tttarg f()e (Utof^cr of 3« 6Ue ' 

By N. P. Willis. 


T God’s right hand sits one who was child , 

Born as the humblest, and who has abode 
Till of our sorrow He suffered all. 

They who now weep, remember that He wept, 
The tempted, the despised, the sorrowing, feel 
That Jesus too drank of these cups of woe. 

And oh, if our joys be tasted less— 

If all but one passed from His lips away— 

That one —a mother's love , by His part a King, 
Is like a thread of Heaven spun through our life, 

And we in the untiring watch, the tears, 

The tenderness and fond trust of a mother, 

For such, all human in its blessedness, 

Was Mary’s love for Jesus. 


®Urg (Kept $ff Worbe. 

By Lady Georgiana C. Fullerton. 

From 11 The Gold Digger's Story,” 1872. 

OTHER of Him who neither strove, nor cried; 
Who “looked” His pain, when by a friend denied; 
Whose whisper on the Cross to one forgiven, 
Cancelled the past and sent a saint to heaven; 
Whose Voice was in the noisy streets unknown, 
His passage, by His mercies marked alone— 
Mother, whose heart was e’en on earth a shrine 
For holy memories and thoughts divine, 

Whence hymns of praise and adoration rose, 

As from a crystal fount the pure stream flows; 

Or, the white speechless lilies of the field 
The fragrant tribute of their perfume yield— 
Mother, perchance for that dear likeness fell 
A glance divine upon the flowery dell, 

And Jesus praised the children of the sod 
For love of thee, the fairest work of God; 

For, Solomon in all his glory bore 
No brighter aspect than these emblems wore— 
Mother, we fain would learn of thee to stand 
The Cross beside, and with no feeble hand 
To clasp Its form, and resolutely pray 
For strength to bear the burden of the day; 

To meditate alone, nor speak of all 

The hopes that stir, the terrors that appal 

Our secret souls, as in their inmost cells 

The storm careers, or the bright sunshine dwells. 


168 



Virgin at Foot of Cross. 


Pauj. Delaroche, 























Teach us that solemn silence of the heart, 
E’en while we fill with zeal life’s earnest part, 
With footsteps swift to hurry on the way 
Wherever love and duty sheds its ray; 

But, from the earth we tread to raise our eyes 
With calm repose to the unchanging skies. 


of f$e (pd66ion. 

By Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 
After John , Metropolitan of Euchaita : XI. Cenhiry. 

O Lady of the Passion, dost thou weep ? 

What help can we then through our tears survey, 
If such as thou a cause for wailing keep? 

What help, what hope, for us, sweet Lady, say? 
“Good man, it doth befit thine heart to lay 
More courage next it, having seen me so. 

All other hearts find other balm to-day— 

The whole world’s consolation is my woe.’’ 



171 





A PlETA. FRANCIA. 

(tVtafer ©oforoea. 

Translated from the Latin. 

By Edward C. Caswall. 

“ Woman , behold thy Son—Behold thy Mother 

A T the Cross her station keeping 

Stood the mournful Mother weeping, 
Where He hung, the dying Lord ; 

For her soul of joy bereaved, 

Bowed with anguish, deeply grieved, 

Felt the sharp and piercing sword. 

Oh, how sad and sore distressed 
Now was she, that Mother blessed 
Of the sole-begotten One ; 

Deep the woe of her affliction, 

When she saw the Crucifixion 
Of her ever-glorious Son. 

172 












Who, on Christ’s dear Mother gazing 
Pierced by anguish so amazing, 

Born of woman, would not weep? 

Who, on Christ’s dear Mother thinking 
Such a cup of sorrow drinking 
Would not share her sorrows deep ? 

For His people’s sins chastised, 

She beheld her Son despised, 

Scourged, and crowned with thorns entwined ; 
Saw Him then from judgment taken, 

And in death by all forsaken, 

Till His Spirit He resigned. 

Jesus, may her deep devotion 
Stir in me the same emotion, 

Fount of love, Redeemer kind, 

That my heart fresh ardor gaining, 

And a purer love attaining, 

May with Thee acceptance find. 



m 



(Wtdfer ©oforoed. 

By Jacobus de Benedictus. 

EEPING stood His mother sighing 
By the cross where Jesus, dying, 

Hung aloft on Calvary : 

Through her soul, in sorrow moaning, 
Bowed in grief, in spirit groaning, 
Pierced the sword in misery. 

Filled with grief beyond all others, 
Mother—blessed among mothers— 

Of the God-begotten One ! 

How she sorroweth and grieveth 
Trembling as she thus perceiveth 
Dying her unspotted One • 

Who could there refrain from weeping, 
Seeing Christ’s dear mother keeping, 
In her grief so bitterly ? 

Who could fail to share her anguish, 
Seeing thus the mother languish, 

Lost in woe so bitterly ? 

For the trespass of His nation 
She beheld His laceration, 

By their scourges suffering. 

She beheld her dearest taken, 
Crucified and God-forsaken 
Dying by their torturing. 


174 






The Virgin Mary and her Dead Son. Michael Angelo. 
[Chapel del Pieta, St. Peter’s, Rome.] 








































Mother, fountain of affection, 

Let me share thy deep dejection, 

Let me share thy tenderness. 

Let my heart, thy sorrow feeling, 
Love of Christ the Lord revealing, 
Be like thine in holiness ! 

All his stripes, oh, let me feel them ! 
On my heart forever seal them ! 

Printed there enduringly. 

All his woes beyond comparing. 

For my sake in anguish bearing, 

Let me share them willingly. 



177 


ILdmenf of Our 

THE EMBRACING OF THE BODY OF CHRIST BY HIS 
VIRGIN MOTHER. 

By William Chatterton Dix. 

Founded on a “ Lament” (translated from the Greek) oj Simeon 
Metaphrasles: IX.-X. Centuries. 



THOU uncovered Corse, Word of the Living One, 
Self-doomed to be uplifted on the bitter tree, 
Thereon to die—Thy patient will, Eternal Son— 
And thence, in love draw all men unto Thee. 


Which of Thy holy members is without a wound ? 

The thorny wreath Thy blessed brow embraces fast: 
No place whereon to lay Thee, weary Head, was found— 
But Thou shalt rest within a tomb at last. 


O lips, which once with sweetest words did overflow, 
Fresh from sharp vinegar and bitterness oi gall; 

O cheeks, how often turned to many a smiter’s blow, 
And spat upon in Pilate’s judgment-hall. 

By hands of men made helpless on the dreadful beam, 

O hands, of man’s creative, how were ye pierced 
through; 

Yet all outstretched, ye reach e’en hades to redeem, 

And give the first transgressor help anew. 

O mouth all sweet, no guile was ever found in thee, 

And yet, alas, by traitorous kiss wast Thou betrayed: 

O blessed feet, that walking on the stormy sea, 

All water hallowed, as the waves obeyed. 


178 


Pieta . Fra Bartolommeo. 








• * 




* 











































































































































Where is the chorus of Thy sick ones, O my Son, 

All those infirm whom Thou didst heal, the upraised 
dead ? 

To draw the nails from hands and feet, there came not 
one 

Of all the crowds whom Thou hast comforted. 

Only came Nicodemus—he who sought by night, 

And Joseph kind—whose rocky tomb Thy bed shall be, 
Whither, to sleep a lion’s sleep, in awful might, 

My Son, how soon will they be bearing Thee. 

Now Thou art borne to me from yon sharp Cross of pain, 
And heavily upon these Mother-arms art laid— 

These arms which bare Thee long ago, and once again 
A lowly resting place for Thee are made. 

I, who first swathed Thee, Thy grave-clothes now will 
bind; 

Giver of Life, Thou liest dead before me now: 

Tears laved Thee at Thy birth; far hotter tears I find 
To wash the death-drops from Thy pallid brow. 

High in these arms-maternal Thou didst leap, 

Thou who wast born of me, this weary world to save: 
O bitter funerals—that I, who hushed Thy sleep, 

Must wail this doleful passion o’er Thy grave. 



1S1 









£$atnf (ttldrg <xt Zfyc Cxobg. 

By Caroline Frances Little. 


U PON the Cross of suffering and woe 
Our Lord in mortal agony reclined. 

Yet love for all and each so filled His mind, 

He thought e’en in that hour of those below, 

Who ’neath the Cross were standing with the foe. 
For as the love-light filled His dying eyes, 

To soothe the holy Mary now He tries. 

“O thou, to whose sweet care, so much I owe 
To thee I’ll give a pure and faithful son, 

To care for thee as long as life shall last.” 

Then of S. John He makes a last request,— 

And now His loving work on earth is done, 

While through the cruel crowd the mourners passed. 
Till in John’s home sweet Mary finds her rest. 


Easter-tide , 1895. 



St. John Leading the Virgin to His Home. W. C. T. Dobson 



























































3eeu6 Cructfteb. 

From Lyra Catholic. 

O COME and mourn with me a while; 
See, Mary calls us to her side; 

O come and let us mourn with her,— 
Jesus, our Love, is crucified ! 

Have we no tears to shed for Him, 
While soldiers scoff and Jews deride ? 
Oh ! look how patiently He hangs,— 
Jesus, our Love, is crucified ! 


His Mother cannot reach His Face, 

She stands in helplessness beside, 

Her heart is martyr’d with her Son’s— 

Jesus, our Love, is crucified ! 

Seven times He spoke, seven Words of love, 
And all three hours His silence cried 
For mercy on the souls of men;— 

Jesus, our Love, is crucified ! 

What was Thy crime, my dearest Lord ? 

By earth, by heaven, Thou hast been triec; ; 
And guilty found of too much love;— 

Jesus, our Love, is crucified! 

Found guilty of excess of love, 

It was Thine sweet will that tried 
Thee tighter far than helpless nails;— 

Jesus, our Love, is crucified! 

Death came, and Jesus meekly bow’d; 

His failing Eyes He strove to guide 
With mindful love to Mary’s face;— 

Jesus, our Love, is crucified! 

*85 


£o f$e (tttrgtn. 

From “To All Angels and Saints A 
By George Herbert. 

H glorious spirits , who , after all your bands , 
smooth face of God , without a frown, 

Or strict commands ; 

Where ev'ry one is king , and hath his crown , 

If not upon his head , //« hands : 

Not out of envie or maliciousnesse 
Do I forbear to crave your speciall aid. 

I would addresse 

My vows to thee most gladly, blessed Maid, 

And Mother of my God, in my distresse. 

Thou art the holy mine, whence came the gold, 
The great restorative for all decay 
In young and old; 

Thou art the cabinet where the jewell lay : 

Chiefly to thee would I my soul unfold. 

But now, [alas !] I dare not; for our King, 

Whom we do all jointly adore and praise, 

Bids no such thing : 

And where His pleasure no injunction layes, 

[’Tis your case,] ye never move a wing : 

All worship is prerogative, and a flower 
Of His rich crown, from Whom lyes no appeal 
At the last houre : 

Therefore we dare not from His garland steal, 

To make a poise for inferiour power. 

Although, then, others court you; if ye know 
What’s done on earth, we shall not fare the worse, 
Who do not so : 

Since we are ever ready to disburse, 

If any one our Master’s hand can show. 


j86 


Regina Cceli by Holbein. 


€0e (tttrgtn. 

By William Wordsworth. 

OTHER ! whose virgin bosom was uncrost 
With the least shade of thought to sin allied ; 
Woman ! above all women glorified ; 

Our tainted nature’s solitary boast; 

Purer than foam on central ocean tost; 

Brighter than eastern skies, at daybreak strewn 
With fancied roses, than the unblemished moon 
Before her wane begins on heaven’s blue coast; 
Thy Image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween, 
Not unforgiven, the suppliant knee might bend, 
As to a visible Power, in which did blend 
All that was mix’d and reconcil’d in thee 
Of mother’s love with maiden purity ; 

Of high with low, celestial with terrene. 


187 








£0e QBfeeeeb (ttlarj’6 feanb. 

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 

From “ The Golden Legend: a Miracle Play .’’ 

PRINCE HENRY’S SOLILOQUY. 

T HIS is indeed the Blessed Mary’s land, 

Virgin and Mother of our dear Redeemer. 

All hearts are touched and softened at her name; 
Alike the bandit, with the bloody hand, 

The priest, the prince, the scholar and the peasant, 
The man of deeds, the visionary dreamer, 

Pay homage to her as one ever present, 

And even as children, who have much offended 
A too indulgent father, in great shame, 

Penitent, and yet, not daring unattended 
To go into his presence, at the gate 
Speak with their sister, and confiding wait 
Till she goes in before and intercedes; 

So men, repenting of their evil deeds, 

And yet, not venturing rashly to draw near 
With their requests an angry father’s ear, 

Offer to her their prayers and their confession, 

And she for them in heaven makes intercession. 
And if our faith had given us nothing more 
Than this Example of all Womanhood, 

So mild, so merciful, so strong, so good. 

So patient, peaceful, loyal, loving, pure— 

This were enough to prove it higher and truer 
Than all the creeds the world had known before. 


m 



Madonna. Giovanni cimabue. 

Etnee on f$e "(tttabonna of ft$e (Ruceffat.” 

By Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

. . . . “ Bright and brave, 

That picture was accounted, mark, of old, 

A king stood bare before its sovereign grace, 

A reverent people shouted to behold 
The picture, not the king, and even the place 
Containing such a miracle grew bold, 

Named the glad Borgo from that beauteous face. 

If any should, 

Because of some stiff draperies and loose joints, 

Gaze scorn down from the heights of Raphael-hood 
On Cimabue’s picture—Heaven anoints 
The head of such a critic, and his blood 
The poet’s curse strikes full on and anoints 
To ague and cold spasms for evermore* 

189 














C()c (Tlame of (tttarg. 

Bv John Boyle O’Reilly. 

D EAR, honored name, beloved for human ties, 

But loved and honored first that One was given 
In living proof, to erring mortal eyes, 

That our poor flesh is near akin to heaven. 

Sweet word of dual meaning: one of grace, 

And born of our kind Advocate above; 

And one, by memory linked to that dear face 
That blessed my childhood with its mother-love. 

And taught me first the simple prayer: “ To thee, 
Poor banished sons of Eve, we send our cries.” 
Through mist of years, those words recall to me 
A childish face upturned to loving eyes. 

And yet, to some the name of Mary bears 
No special meaning and no gracious power; 

In that dear word they seek for hidden snares, 

As wasps find poison in the sweetest flower. 

But faithful hearts can see, o’er doubts and fears, 
The Virgin-link that binds the Lord to earth; 
Which, to the upturned trusting face, appears 
Greater than angel, though of human birth. 

The sweet-faced moon reflects, on cheerless night, 
The rays of hidden sun that rise to-morrow; 

So, unseen God still lets His promised light, 
Through holy Mary, shine upon our sorrow. 


190 


£$e (tVtonf^ of (tttarg. 

(A Song.) 

By John Henry Newman. 

G REEN are the fields, and sweet the flowers, 

And rich the hues of May ; 

We see them in the gardens ’round, 

And market—panniers gay : 

And e’en among our streets, and lanes, 

And alleys, we descry, 

By fitful gleams, the fair sunshine, 

The blue, transparent sky. 

Refrain —O mother-maid, be thou our aid, 

Now in the opening year ; 

Lest sights of earth to sin give birih 
And bring the tempter near. 

Green are the years, but wait awhile, 

’Twill grow, and then will wither ; 

The flowerets, brightly as they smile, 

Shall perish altogether: 

The merry sun, you sure would say, 

It ne’er could set in gloom ; 

But earth’s best joys have all an end, 

And sin, a heavy doom. 

Refrain —But Mother-maid, thou dost not fade ; 
With stars above thy brow, 

And the pale moon beneath thy feet 
Forever throned art thou. 

19 1 


The green, green years, the glittering grove, 
The heaven’s majestic dome, 

They image forth a tenderer bower, 

A more refulgent home ; 

They tell us of that Paradise 
Of everlasting rest. 

And that high Tree, all flowers and fruit, 

The sweetest, yet the best. 

Refrain —O Mary, pure and beautiful, 

Thou art the Queen of May ; 
Our garlands wear upon thy hair, 
And they will ne’er decay. 

The Oratory, 1850. 



192 





(Jttottfft of (ttUg. 

By Epiphanius Wilson. 

[ N holy Mary’s month of praise, 

The chancel white with lilies shone: 

The candles burned with placid blaze ; 

The light above the altar-stone 
Lit up the pyx with crimson rays ; 

In holy Mary’s month of praise. 

In linen vest and fringe of lace 
He stood behind the glorious priest; 

I could not see his cherub face ; 

He swung the censer at the feast, 

And filled with clouds the blessed place, 

In linen vest and fringe of lace. 

In holy Mary’s month of May, 

Just as the first down marked his lip, 

We knelt together one sad day ; 

The gonfalons above his ship 
Waved through my brain, I could not pray, 
In holy Mary’s month of May. 

Dear Mother, thou hast woman’s heart, 
And half my heart was reft from me, 
Thou knowest what pain it is to part, 

And trust a lover to the sea ; 

And tho’ thou canst not heal the smart, 
Dear Mother, thou hast woman’s heart. 

We knelt together at thy shrine, 

Thy robe was rich, thy crown of gold; 
We wept before thy face divine 
And all our grief to thee we told; 

With his brown hand fast closed on mine 
We knelt together at thy shrine. 


193 


In holy Mary’s month of May 
From yonder hill I saw his ship 
With full sails foaming up the bay ; 

He landed at the sally-slip ; 

We met, we kissed, that happy day, 

In holy Mary’s month of May. 

In holy Mary’s month of May, 

I led him to the sainted shrine ; 

But ah, dear Christ! he turned away : 

“This goddess is no longer mine ; 

A fairer, stronger I obey ; 

In holy Mary’s month of May. 

“ I met her in the eastern isles ; 

Her temple gleams in every grove ; 
She draws the sea-ships with her smiles 
She binds the strongest in her love ; 
Her bosom white the world beguiles ; 

I met her in the eastern isles.” 

In holy Mary’s month of May 
Strange horror seized me as I stood ; 
We leaped asunder that wild day, 

As parted by the boundless flood ; 
And now my maiden locks are grey 
In holy Mary’s month of May. 

Oh, Virgin Mary, Queen of heaven, 
Because the sword thy heart has cleft, 
Thou pitiest hearts by anguish riven, 
Here, sad and sore, of all bereft; 

I light to thee these tapers seven ; 

Oh, Virgin Mary, Queen of heaven. 


194 


£0e QStrbe of (Bob. 

By George Parsons Lathrop. 

H AVE we not seen them in all ages coming,— 

Those birds of God, that cleave the rosy air 
Or fill the midnight with their soft, wing’d humming: 
The doves, the ravens that rebuke despair, 

And, hovering round our spirits, bless 
Or feed us in the wilderness ? 

Lo, Blessed Mary and St. Joseph, bending 
To nourish with simple bread the Holy Child;— 
Even like God’s birds, their nestled young attending. 
How sweetly beam the Savior’s glances mild, 
Approving them w-ho humbly give 
To God the food whereby men live ! 

To-day, around the tall cathedral spiring, 

Where open-work of carved and fretted stone 
The hollow and the height of man’s desiring 
In loveliness of upward line makes known, 

White circling doves pass in and out, 

With poise serene that knows not doubt. 

In the arched nave below, with music trembling, 
What forms are these that gather without sound: 
That cluster toward the altar, swift assembling, 

And at the rail in reverence kneel profound ? 

These are God’s birds, with folded wings, 

To whom the Mother sustenance brings. 

O birds of God, whom here we know as being 
Meek children, women, men, who nestling wait;— 
Your higher course still but in faith foreseeing; 
Receive the Sacred Bread ! And, calm, elate, 
Know it shall lift your souls ere long 
To endless flight, celestial song. 


195 


JmmAcufafe Conception. 

By Aubrey de Vere. 

Lines on Murillo's Celebrated Picture. 


A SIGN was seen in heaven: a Woman stood; 

Beneath her feet the moon.” That waning moon 
’Neath yonder pictured apparition curved, 

Is time there dying with his dying months: 

The Spirit showed that vision to Saint John, 

Exiled in Patmos Isle. The best beloved 
Deserved such solace best. 

She stands in heaven: 

Not yet the utmost mountain-peaks of earth, 

Forth from the hoary deep unlifted still, 

Have felt her foot’s pure touch. A cloud from God, 
On streaming like a tide, thus far hath borne her 
To the threshold only of the house of man, 

Angelic heads and wings beneath her gleam, 

And lily and rose and palm. Her knee is bent: 

Her moon-like face is tearful with great awe: 

Her universe is God, and other none; 

Piercing all worlds, her gaze is fixed on Him: 

She waits His will supreme. 


The painter’s hand 

Wrought well. Yon robe glitters, a pearl of dawn; 
Yon purple scarf, blown back by her advance, 

Is dark with dews and shades of vanquished night; 
The raised hands, upward pointing from that breast, 
Are matutinal with some heavenlier beam 
Than streaks our east. That sunless mist behind her 
Wins but from her its glow. 

Oh, young fair face— 

For though that Form to Maiden-graciousness 
Hath reached, the face is maiden less than child, 

Or both in one, an earlier mystery, 


196 


Murillo. 


The Immaculate Conception. 


[Louvre, Paris -1 






































■ 


























' 


















































































































































Precursor of that Maiden-Motherhood 
Which blends two gifts divine. Child-Prophet soft— 
What thoughts are hers? He only knows who sends 
them. 

From Him they come; to Him once more ascend. 
Child-Prophet sad; feels she the destined weight 
Of crowns and sceptres, and the wide earth’s praise, 
Honoring earth’s humblest ? She that would be nought, 
Must she be Queen of all? 

Not yet; not yet; 

Ere comes that day she must be Queen of Woes. 

This, this is the beginning, not the end; 

A world redeemed must be a world sin-marred: 

That world as yet exists not. This is she 

Through whom, though man had never fallen, his God 

Then too had dwelt with man—so taught the Seer— 

Not victim, but triumphant. Sleep, O Eve, 

Thy Daughter’s foot—yon picture veils, yet shows it— 
Thy Daughter’s foot, “the Woman’s,” the Foretold, 
Whose sacred Seed, “the Woman’s Seed,” through her 
Shall bruise the serpent’s head, not yet subdues it: 

Not yet that moon she treads hath gazed on guilt. 

• ••*•••• 

Child of Heaven, 

The First-born, save thy Son, in those decrees, 

The Elect, the Immaculate, the Full of Grace 
Which, for that Son’s sake, fenced thee from His foe; 
Foam-born from seas of sanctity alone; 

Tested in all the sanctities of God, 

And borne—that six days’ work as yet unwrought— 
Above the heaving crests of things to be, 

A Gift predestined, but a Gift reserved; 

Say, must that foot which treads yon waning orb, 
Descend one day to earth ? It will not catch 
Her taint; but where it treads, those other feet 
Will leave ensanguined prints—the Feet of God. 


199 


JLtnee on (ttturiffo’e (picture af (tttdbnb. 

Bv Archbishop Trench. 

W ITH what calm power thou risest on tne wind; 

Mak’st thou a pinion of those locks unshorn? 

Or of that dark-blue robe which floats behind 
In ample folds ? Or art thou cloud-upborne ? 

A crescent moon is bent beneath thy feet; 

Above, the heavens expand, and tier o’er tier, 
With heavenly garlands thy advance to greet. 

The cloudy throng of cherubim appear. 

There is a glory round thee, and mine eyes 
Are dazzled, for I know not whence it came; 
Since, never in the light of western skies 
The island-clouds burned with so pure a flame. 

Nor were these flowers of our dull, common mould, 
But nurtured on some amaranthine bed, 

Nearer the sun, remote from storms and cold, 

By purer dews and warmer breezes fed. 

Well may we be perplexed and sadly wrought, 

That we can guess so ill what dreams were thine, 
Ere from the chambers of thy silent thought 
That face looked out on thee, Painter divine. 

What innocence, what love, what loveliness, 

What purity must have familiar been 
Unto thy soul, before it could express 
The holy beauty in that visage seen. 

And so, if we would understand thee right, 

And the diviner portion of thine art, 

We must exalt our spirits to thine height— 

Nor wilt thou else the mystery impart 


200 



Immaculate Conception. Murillo. 


[The'Prado, Madrid.] 






























































































































































































• - 




























Virgin of the Mirror. 


Murillo 


[Earl of Northbrook, London, formerly in Madrid.] 








<£o t§e (Virgin. 

By Francesco Petrarch. 

From Poem “ To Laura in Death." Translated by Major 
Macgregor. 

Conzone VIII. 

B eautiful virgin \ clothed with the sun, 

Crown’d with the stars, who so the Eternal Sun 
Well pleasedst that in thine His light He hid ; 

Love pricks me on to utter speech of thee, 

And—feeble to commence without thy aid— 

Of Him who on thy bosom rests in love. 

Her I invoke who gracious still replies 
To all who ask in faith, 

Virgin ! if ever yet 

The misery of man and mortal things 

To mercy moved thee, to my prayer incline ; 

Help me in this my strife. 

Though I am but ot dust, and thou heaven’s radiant 
Queen! 

Wise Virgin ! of that lonely number one 
Of Virgin’s blest and wise, 

Even the first and with the brightest lamp : 

O solid buckler of afflicted hearts ! 

’Neath which against the blows of Fate and Death, 

Not mere deliverance, but great victory is ; 

Relief from the blind ardor which consumes 
Vain mortals here below ! 

Virgin ! those lustrous eyes, 


205 


Which tearfully beheld the cruel prints 
In the fair limbs of they beloved Son, 

Ah ! turn on my sad doubt, 

Who friendless, helpless thus, for counsel come to thee 

O Virgin ! pure and perfect in each part, 

Maiden or Mother, from thy honor’d birth, 

This life to lighten and the next adorn ; 

O bright and loft gate of open’d heaven ! 

By thee, thy Son and His, the Almighty Sire, 

In our worst need to save us came below ! 

And, from amid all other early seats, 

Thou only weret elect, 

Virgin supremely blest! 

The tears of Eve who turnedst into joy : 

Make me, thou canst, yet worthy of His grace, 

O happy without end, 

Who art in highest heaven a saint immortal shrined ! 

O holy Virgin ! full of every good, 

Who, in humility most deep and true, 

To heaven art mounted, thence my prayers hear, 

That fountain thou of pity didst produce, 

That sun of justice light, which calms and clears 
Our age, else clogg’d with errors dark and foul. 

Three sweet and precious names in the combine, 

Of mother, daughter, wife, 

Virgin with glory crown’d 

Queen of that King who has unloosed our bonds, 

And free and happy made the world again, 

By whose most sacred wounds, 

I pray my heart to fix where true joys only are ! 

Virgin ! of all unparallel’d, alone, 

Who with thy beauties hast enamour’d Heaven, 

Whose like has never been, nor e’er shall be ; 

For holy thoughts with chaste and pious acts 


206 



To the true God a sacred living; shrine 
In thy fecund virginity have made : 

By thee, dear Mary, yet my life may be 
Happy, if to thy prayers, 

O Virgin meek and mild ! 

Where sin abounded grace shall more abound ! 

With bended knee and broken heart I pray 
That thou my guide wouldst be, 

And to such prosperous end direct my faltering way. 

Bright Virgin ! and immutable as bright, 

O’er life’s tempestuous ocean the sure star 
Each trusting mariner that truly guides, 

Look down, and see amid this dreadful storm 
How I am tost at random and alone, 

And how already my last shriek is near, 

Yet still in thee, sinful although and vile, 

My soul keeps all her trust; 

Virgin I thee implore 

Let not thy foe have triumph in my fall ; 

Remember that our sin made God himself, 

To free us from its chain 

Within thy virgin womb our image on Him take ! 

Virgin ! what tears already have I shed, 

Cherish’d what dreams and breath’d what prayers in vain, 
But for my own worse penance and sure loss ; 

Since first on Arno’s shore I saw the light 
Till now, whate’er I sought, wherever turn’d, 

My life has passed in torment and in tears, 

For mortal loveliness in air, act, speech, 

Has seized and soil’d my soul: 

O Virgin ! pure and good, 

Delay not till I reach my life’s last year ; 

Swifter than shaft and shuttle are my days 
’Mid misery and sin 

Have vanish’d all, and now Death only is behind. 


207 


Virgin ! she now is dust, who, living, held 
My heart in grief, and plunged it since in gloom, 

She knew not of my many ills this one, 

And had she known, what since befell me still 
Had been the same, for every other wish 
Was death to me and ill renown for her; 

But, Queen of heaven, our Goddess—if to thee 
Such homage be not sin— 

Virgin ! of matchless mind, 

Thou knowest now the whole ; and that which else 
No other can, is nought to thy great power : 

Deign then my grief to end, 

Thus honor shall be thine, and safe my peace at last : 

Virgin in whom I fix my every hope, 

Who canst and will’st assist me in great need, 
Forsake me not in this my worst extreme, 

Regard not me but Him who made me thus ; 

Let His high image stamp’d in my poor worth 
Towards one so low and lost thy pity move ; 

Medusa spells have made me as a rock 
Distilling a vain flood ; 

Virgin, my harrass’d heart 

With pure and pious tears do thou fulfill, 

That its last sigh at least may be devout, 

And free from earthly taint, 

As was my earliest vow ere madness fill’d my veins ! 

Virgin ! benevolent, and foe of pride, 

Ah ! let the love of our one Author win, 

Some mercy for a contrite, humble heart: 

For if her poor, frail mortal dust I loved 
With loyalty so wonderful and long, 

Much more my faith and gratitude for thee. 

From this my present sad and sunken state 
If by thy help I rise, 

Virgin ! to thy dear name 


208 


I consecrate and cleanse my thoughts, speech, pen, 

My mind, and heart with all its tears and sighs ; 

Point then that better path, 

And with complacence view my changed desires at last. 

The day must come, nor distant for its date, 

Time flies so swift and sure, 

O peerless and alone ! 

When death my heart, now conscience struck, shall seize; 
Commend me, Virgin ! then to thy dear Son, 

True God and very Man, 

That my last sigh in peace may in His arms be breathed ! 



209 






<J6e (ptrgtn. 

By Francis T. Palgrave. 

M other-maid ail-holy, 

Throned upon thy knee, 
Evermore the Almighty 
Child and Lord we see, 
While with awe thou gazest 
On the wondrous face— 
Blest among all women, 

Mary, full of grace. 

Sung by million millions, 
Since the distant day 
When she walked among us 
Her sweet stainless way:— 
How should we unworthy 
To thy praise draw near; 
How uplift the chorus 
Meet for heaven to hear ? 

Of that perfect childhood, 

Of that youth-time fair. 
Scarce a whisper lingers 
What thou wast, and where: 
Flower amid the flowers 
Faith beholds thee go. 
Mystic Rose of Sharon, 

Lily pure as snow. 



310 








Madonna di Foligno. 


Raphael. 


Vatican, Rome.] 
























































O’er the holy bosom 
She her faithful hands 
Folds, in silence waiting 
Highest heaven’s commands; 
Till the sun-bright angel 
Spoke his awful word, 

“ Lo, Thy will is my will, 
Handmaid of the Lord.” 

Angels and archangels 
Now are round the Maid, 
Where the world’s Creator 
At her knees is laid; 

Where she worships o’er Him, 
God and Man in one, 

Son of highest heaven, 

Mary’s royal Son. 

By our great first parent, 
Tempted and beguiled, 

We were cast from Eden 
To the desert wild: 

Second Eve and Mother, 

By the gift she brought, 

God, through Mary’s sorrow, 
Man’s salvation wrought. 


On the Babe thou smilest, 

He on thee the while: 

But His Father’s business 
Calls Him from thy smile; 

In the secret archives 
It is writ above, 

Sevenfold swords shall pierce thee 
Sevenfold wounds of love. 


213 



Who should tell, when Mary 
Touched the heart of w r oe ? 
When she saw death’s triumph 
Up the dool-way go ? 

When the whole world’s burden 
Bent Him ’neath the rood? 
When it shone, to save us, 

With the precious Blood ? 

By the Cross now standing 
In that utter woe, 

Yet some drops of gladness 
In thy sorrows flow; 

As the loved disciple 
Reverent leads thee home— 
Queen in lowly refuge, 

Heaven’s own ante-room. 

Now through rest translated 
To the realm assigned, 

Crowned with grace we greet thee, 
Crown of human-kind; 

Yet through all the ages, 

Throned upon thy knee, 
Mother-Maid, the Almighty 
Child and Lord we see. 



214 






A Monk at his Devotions by Overbeck. 

Zfye (tttonft r tt?6o J)onoreb $e (Dtrgtn. 

(From Chaucer Society. ) 

By John Lydgate. 

Verses First, Second , Third and Sixteenth. 

O WELLE of swetnes . replete in evry veyn e 
That almankynd . pr^serued hast fro deth, 

And al oure doye fro langour didest restrayne 
At thy nativitie . o flow of Nazareth, 

When the holigost . with his swete breth 
Gan to espirem . as for his chosen place, 

For love of man, . by influence of his grace, 

215 














And were Inviolate, . a bright heavenly sterre, 
Monge celestynes Reigneng, . withouten memorye, 
That be thyne emprise . in this mortal were 
Of oure captiuite . gatest the ful victory : 

Whan I beseche . for thyn excelent glory, 

Som drope of thi grace . adoune to me constille, 

In Reu^rence of the . this dyte to fulfille. 

That only my Rudeness . thy myracle nat deface, 
Whiche whilom sendest . in a devout abbeye 
Of an holy Monk . thurght they myght and grace, 
That of al pite . berest both lok and keye : 

For, beuyng lady ; the soth of the to say, 

Ful wele thow a qugtest . that don the love and serve, 
An hundred sithes better . than they deserve. 


“ Whos paseyng goodenes . may nat be comprehendyd 
In mannes prudence, . fully to determyne, 

She is so parlite . she kan nat be amended, 

That ay to mercy . and pite doth enclyne.” 

Now benyng lady, . that didest oure sorwesfyne, 

In honoure of the . that these psalmes Rede 
As was dane loos . so guyte hem for hir mede ! 

Amen. 


216 


Orfdnbo dnb f$e (E»ianf. 

By Luigi Pulci. 

From the “Morgante Maggiore.” 
Translated by George Gordon Byron. 

T HEN full of wrath departed trom the place, 

And far. 

The monks could pass the convent gates no more, 
Nor leave their cells for water or for wood. 
Orlando knocked, but none would ape, before 
Unto the prior it at length seemed good ; 
Entered, and said that he was taught to adore 
Him who was born of Mary’s holiest blood, 

And was baptized a Christian; and then showed 
How to the Abbey he had found his road. 

Said the abbot, “You are welcome; what is mine 
We give you freely, since that you believe 
With us in Mary, Mother’s Son divine; 

And that you may not, Cavalier, conceive 
The cause of our delay to let you in 
To be rusticity, you shall receive 
The reason why our gate was barred to you: 

Thus those who in suspicion live must do.” 


217 



($. fLecjentorg QSaffab. 

By Johann Gottfreid Von Herder. 
Translated by Mrs. Mary Hozvitt. 

MONG green, pleasant meadows, 
l All in a grove so wild, 

‘We set a marble image 

Of the Virgin and the Child. 

Here oft on summer evenings, 

A lovely boy would roam, 

To play beside the image 
That sanctified the grove. 

Oft sat his mother by him, 

Among the shadows dim, 

And told how the Lord Jesus 
Was once a child like him. 

“ And now from highest heaven 
He doth look down each day, 

And sees whate’er thou doest, 

And hears what thou dost say !” 

Thus spoke his tender mother : 

And, on an evening bright, 

When the red, round sun descended 
’Mid clouds of crimson light, 

Again the boy was playing ; 

And earnestly said he, 

“ O beautiful child Jesus ! 

Come down and play with me. 


218 




The Madonna and Holy Infa7it. Michael Angelo. 


fin the Churcfy of Notre-Dame, Bruges, Belgium.] 


* 






































K 
























































































































































La SaintelAnne. 


Leonardo da Vinci. 


[Louvre, Paris.] 




I will find for thee flowers the fairest, 
And weave for thee a crown ; 

I will get thee ripe, red strawberries, 

If thou will but come down. 

“ O holy, holy mother ! 

Put him down from off thy knee ; 

For in these silent meadows 
There are none to play with me.” 

Thus spoke the boy so lovely, 

The while his mother heard ; 

And on his prayer she pondered 
But spoke to him no word. 

That self-same night she dreamed 
A lovely dream of joy : 

She thought she saw young Jesus 
There, playing with the boy. 

“ And for the fruits and flowers 
Which thou hast brought to me, 

Rich blessings shall be given 
A thousand-fold to thee. 

“For in the fields of heaven, 

Thou shalt roam with me at will ; 

And of bright fruit celestial 
Thou shall have, dear child, thy fill.” 

Thus tenderly and kindly 
The fair child Jesus spoke; 

And full of careful musings, 

The anxious mother woke. 

And thus it was accomplished : 

In a short month and a day, 

That lovely boy so gentle, 

Upon his death-bed lay ! 


223 


And thus he spoke in dying, 

“O mother, dear, I see 
The beautiful child Jesus 
A-coming down to me ! 

‘ ‘ And in his hand he beareth 
Bright flowers as white as snow, 
And red and juicy strawberries,— 
Dear mother, let me go.” 

He died—but that fond mother 
Her sorrow did restrain, 

For she knew he was with Jesus, 
And she asked him not again. 



224 




Mystic Marriage of St. Katharine. memling. 

QJUtrodjje of (Katharine. 

By Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 

Lines on a picture by Memling , at Bruges. 

M YSTERY: Katherine, the bride of Christ. 

She kneels: and on her hand the Holy Child 
Setteth the ring. Her life is sad and mild, 

Laid in God’s knowledge—ever unenticed 
From Him, and in the end thus fitly priced. 

Awe and the music that is near her, wrought 
Of angels, hath possessed her eyes in thought: 
Her utter joy is hers, and hath sufficed. 

There is a pause, while Mary Virgin turns 
The leaf and reads. With eyes on the spread book, 
That damsel at her knees reads after her. 

John whom He loved, and John His harbinger, 
Listen and watch. Whereon so e’er thou look, 
The light is starred in gems, and the gold burns. 













JLtnee on Correggio's (Utabonnd of 
^eBaeftan. 

By Michael Field. 

B OUND by thy hands, but with respect unto thine eyes 
how free, 

Fixed on Madonna, seeing all that they were born to see ! 
The Child thine upward face hath sighted, 

Still and delighted; 

Oh, bliss, when with mute rites two souls are plighted ! 

As the young aspen leaves rejoice, though to the stem 
held tight, 

In the soft visit of the air, the current of the light, 

Thou hast the peril of a captive’s chances ; 

Thy spirit dances, 

Caught in the play of Heaven’s divine advances. 

While cherubs struggle on the clouds of luminous curled 
fire, 

The Babe looks through them, far below, on thee with 
soft desire. 

Most clear of bond must they be reckoned; 

No joy is second 

To theirs whose eyes by other eyes are beckoned. 

Though arrows rain on breast and throat they have no 
power to hurt, 

While thy tenacious face they fail an instant to avert. 

Oh, might mine eyes, so without measure, 

Feed on their treasure, 

The world with thong and dart might do its pleasure. 


236 



Madonna of St. Sebastian. Correggio. 

[Dresden Gallery.] 












































* 












































- ♦' - 


-- 
















































































































Madonna della Stella . 


Fra Angelico. 


[Museum St. Mark.] 










(ReftquarieB: fragment. 

By David Gray. 

From “Life, Poems, &c.f Buffalo, N. Y, 1888. 

I THINK—while softer fancies sleep— 

Of those old altar-pictures quaint, 

Which pure-souled Mem’ling loved to paint; 
Or, those that in fair Florence keep 
His fame, as limner and as saint, 

Who, kneeling, painted heaven—and so, 

Was named of men “Angelico.” 

All shut, such reliquaries stand, 

Rich paintings on each folded lid 
That keeps the inner beauty hid. 

And almost one is stopped to gaze. 

And half—before the doors expand — 
Would lift the censer of his praise. 

But, open; and there straightway beam 
Such glories of the fairer dream, 

All other light is quenched than its. 

Unclouded glows the golden air. 

And ringed with heaven’s own aureole, 

The very deep of beauty’s soul 
Throbs visible, where the Virgin sits. 


231 



^ifubcnfe’ ©ag tn f$e (Juftondf (Bafferg, 
bonbon. 

By Sir Edwin Arnold. 

From “In My Lady's Praise ,” 1890. 

Written when she was copying the Madonna of Perugino, 1868. 

O UT of all the hundred fair Madonnas 
Seen in many a rich and distant city— 

Sweet Madonnas, with the mother’s bosoms, 

Sad Madonnas, with the eyes of anguish; 

Rapt Madonnas, caught in clouds to heaven 
(Clouds of golden, glad, adoring angels)— 

She of Florence in “the Chair,” so perfect; 

She that was the “Grand Duke’s” wealth and glory, 

She that makes the picture of “the Goldfinch”; 
Ghirlandajo’s with the cloak and jewels; 

Guido’s Queen, whom men and angels worship; 

Della Robbia’s best; and that sweet “Perla,” 

Seville’s bright boast, Mary of Murillo 
(Painted, so they vow, with milk and roses); 

Guido Reni’s “Quadro” at Bologna; 

Munich’s masterpiece, grim Dtirer’s Goddess; 

Yes, and thy brave work, Beltraffio mio— 

Many as the lessons are I owe them, 

Thanks and wonder, worship, grateful memories, 
Oftenest I shall think of Perugino’s. 

Do you know it ? Either side a triptych 
Stands an armed archangel, as to guard her, 

Glorious, with great wings and shining armour; 


232 





Madonna della Sedia. 


Raphael. 


[Pitti Gallery, Plorenee.l 

















Virgin of Seville . 


Murillo. 


[Louvre, Paris.] 









In the middle panel, pure and tender, 

Clasping close her hands, with adoration, 

(All the mother’s love, the mortal’s worship, 

In their yearning, in their reverence, painted) 

Gazes Mary on the Child. A seraph 

Holds Him, smiling, at her knees; and, smiling, 

Looks she down with spirit humbly-happy, 

Full, to the heart’s brim, of the peace of heaven. 
Reverence mingles with the Mother’s passion, 

But no touch of sadness, or of doubting. 

Far away a river runneth seaward 
(Little now, like truth; like truth, to widen) 

Leads the light across a blue, dim country, 

Under peaks, by forests, to the ocean: 

Soft and warm, a pearly sky broods over 
Where three winged-ones, at the Father’s footstool, 
Sing the “ Peace and Goodwill” song to mortals. 

If you ask me why that Perugino 
Of the rest can never be forgotten, 

Let this serve: I learned a lesson by it, 

Watching one whose light and faithful fingers— 
Following touch by touch her lovely labor— 

Caught the master’s trick and made him modern. 
While she bent above her new Madonna, 

Laid the lucid smalts and touched the crimsons, 
Swept the shadows under the gilt tresses, 

Smoothed the sinless brows, and drooped the eyelids 
(What the master did, so also doing). 

I bethought me: True and good the toil is; 

Noble thus to double gifts of beauty; 

Yet, alas ! this ‘“Peace and Good-will” anthem— 

If the dear Madonna knew what ages, 

Slowly following ages, would creep o’er us, 

And those words be still as wind that passes, 
Breathing fragrance from a land we know not, 
Sighing music to a tune we catch not, 


2 37 


Stirring hearts, as leaves, in the night, a little 
Shake, and sleep again, and wait for sunlight 
(Sweet, glad sunlight, oh, so long a-coming), 

Would she smile so? I had painted rather 
(While she listened to those singing angels) 

Mary, with a sword-blade in her bosom 
(Sword that was to pierce her heart, of all hearts); 

I had shown her with deep eyes of trouble, 

Half afraid to credit that evangel; 

I had limned her “pondering all those sayings,” 

All our later agonies foreseeing, 

After all our years have heard “ the tidings.” 

But the artist, painting bold and largely; 

Washing soft and clear the broadening colors; 

With a liberal brush, at skilful working, 

Linking lights and shadows on the visage, 

Dropped by hazard there one drop of water. 

Lo, a tear, I thought, that teaches Pietro; 

That is wiser than the master’s wisdom; 

Now the picture’s meaning will be perfect; 

For she could not be so calm, Christ’s Mother. 

Could she? even though archangels kept her, 

Could she? even though those sang in heaven, 
Knowing how her world would roll beyond them, 
Twenty centuries past this sacred moment, 

Out of sound of this angelic singing; 

Loaded with the wrongs Christ’s justice rights not, 
Reddened with the blood Christ’s teachings stanch not, 
Reeking with the tears Christ’s pity stays not. 

Let the tear shine there: it suits the story: 

Tear and smile go wondrous well together, 

Seeing that this song was sung by angels, 

Seeing that the foolish world gainsays it. 

That one lustrous drop completes the picture: 

You forgot it, Peter of Perugia. 


Ah, I did not know an artist’s wisdom; 

I had still to learn my deepest lesson: 

She I watched with better thought inspired, 

Took some tender color in her pencil 
(Faint-dawn color, blush of rose, I marked not), 
Touched the tear and melted it to brightness ; 
Spread it in a heavenly smile all over; 

Magically made it turn to service; 

Till that tear, charged with its rosy tintings, 
Deepened the first sweet smile, and left it lovelier— 
Like the master’s work, complete, sufficient. 

Then I thought: Pietro’s wise Madonna 
Was too wise to weep at little sorrows: 

Christ and she and heaven and all the angels 
Last—’tis sin, and grief, alone which passes. 

Roses grow of dew, and smiles from weeping; 
Sweetest smile is made of saddest tear-drop; 

She hath not forgotten we shall suffer; 

In her heart that sword, to the heft, is planted: 

But beyond the years, she sees time over; 

Past the Calvary, she counts the “mansions.” 

Dear Madonna, wise to be so happy, 

Should you weep, because we have not listened ? 
We shall listen: and His Mother knows it. 

This is why, of many rare Madonnas, 

Most of all I think on Perugino’s, 

I, who know so many more and love them; 

This is why I thank my gentle artist, 

She who taught me that, a student’s wisdom. 


239 


£$e feegettb of $r<*;Coeft. 

By Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 

Extract , 

Reprinted by permission of Messrs. Houghton , Mifflin & Co. 

L OOKING at Fra Gervasio, 

Wrinkled and withered and old and grey, 

A dry Franciscan from crown to toe, 

You would never imagine, by any chance, 

That, in the convent garden one day, 

He spun this thread of golden romance. 

Romance to me, but to him, indeed, 

*Twas a matter that did not hold a doubt; 

A miracle, nothing more nor less. 

Did I think it strange that, in our need, 

Leaning from Heaven to our distress, 

The Virgin brought such things about— 

Gave mute things speech, made dead things move ? 
Mother of Mercy, Lady of Love ! 

Besides, I might, if I wished, behold 
The Bambino’s self in his cloth of gold 
And silver tissue, lying in state 
In the Sacristy. Would the signor wait? 

Whoever will go to Rome may see, 

In the chapel of the Sacristy 
Of Ara-Cceli, the Sainted Child— 

Garnished from throat to foot with rings 
And brooches and precious offerings, 

And its little nose kissed quite away 
By dying lips. At Epiphany, 

If the holy winter day prove mild, 

It is shown to the wondering, gaping crowd 
On the Church’s steps—held high aloft— 

While every sinful head is bowed, 

And the music plays, and the censers’ soft 
White breath ascends like silent prayer. 


240 



Santa Bambino , attributed to St. Luke. 
[In Ara-Coeli, Rome.] 








































*- “ - r 







































































St Luke Sketching the Virgin. Roger van der Weyden, 
[Munich, Germany A 







§&t. feufte (painting f$e (Virgin. 

By Edward Dowden. 

(Lines on a Picture by Van der Weyden .) 

I T was Luke’s will: and she, the Mother-Maid, 

Would not gainsay; to please him, pleased her best 
See, here she sits, with dove-like heart at rest, 
Brooding, and smoothest brow; the Babe is laid 
On lap and arm, glad for the unarrayed 
And swatheless limbs He stretches. Lightly pressed 
By soft maternal fingers, the full breast 
Seeks him, while half a sidelong glance is stayed 
By her own bosom, and half passes down 
To reach the Boy. Through door and window-frame 
Bright airs flow in; a river tranquilly 
Washes the small, glad Netherlandish town. 

Innocent calm: no token here of shame, 

A pierced heart, sunless heaven, and Calvary. 


245 


Our Ectbg of tU (Rootle. 

By Dante Gabriel Rossetti. 

Lines on the celebrated picture by Leonardo da Vinci. 

M OTHER, is this the darkness of the end, 

The shadow of death ? And is that outer sea 
Infinite, imminent eternity ? 

And does the death-pang, by man’s seed sustained 
In time’s each instant, cause thy face to bend 
Its silent prayer upon the Son, while He 
Blesses the dead, with His hand silently, 

To His long day which hours no more offend i 

Mother of Grace, the pass is difficult, 

Keen as these rocks; and the bewildered souls 
Throng it like echoes, blindly shuddering through 
Thy name, O Lord, each spirit’s voice extols, 

Whose peace abides in the dark avenue, 

Amid the bitterness of things occult. 


On tf)C £$<xme (picture. 

By Mary Lamb. 

M ATERNAL Lady with the virgin grace, 
Heaven-born thy Jesus seemeth sure, 
And thou a Virgin pure. 

Lady most perfect, when thy sinless face 
Men look upon, they wish to be 
Catholic, Madonna fair, to worship thee. 


246 





The Virgin of the Rocks. Leonardo da Vinci. 


[National Gallery, London; also Louvre, Paris.] 





















































































» 










































■ 


























































































































































The Sistine Madonna. Raphael. 


[Dresden Gallery.] 








<£6c Jt&iefine Qttabonnd. 


By Henry M. Goodwin. 


B EHOLD the Maid and Mother, doubly blest, 

In sweet amazement holding in her arms 
The wondrous Child ! no timorous alarms 
Stir her pure bosom with love’s weight oppressed, 
But sacred awe holds her entranced at rest ; 
Within her arms he sits, as on a throne, 

Looking serenely on the world unknown 
He came to save ; majestic, uncaressed. 


In meditation lost, and Heaven lies 
In the dear orbs of those amazing eyes. 

Depth within depth, encircling amplitude; 
Angels and cherubs wait on poised wing, 

To gaze upon the vision, pondering 
The holy mystery of Motherhood. 



251 


(RapIfaePe (Jttabonnft bt ^an ^tefo. 

By George H. Miles. 

T HREE hundred years the world has looked at it 
Unwearied—it, at heaven: and here it hangs 
In Dresden, making it a Holy City. 

It is an old acquaintance: you have met 
Copies by thousands—Morghens here and there— 

But all the sunlight withered. Prints, at best, 

Are but the master’s shadow—as you see. 

I call that face the holiest revelation 
God ever made to genius. How, or why, 

When, or for whom ’twas painted, wherefore ask ? 
Enough to know ’tis Raphael, and to feel 
His Fornarina was not with him when, 

Spurning the slow cartoon, he flashed that face, 

That Virgin-Mother’s half-transfigured face 
On canvas. Yes: they say, ’twas meant to head 
Some virginal procession; to that banner 
Heaven’s inmost gates might open, one would think. 

But let the picture tell its story. Take 
Your stand in this far corner. Falls the light 
As you would have it? That, Saint Barbara; 

Observe her inclination, and the finger 
Of Sixtus: both are pointing—where? Now, look 
Below—those grand boy-angels: watch their eyes, 
Fastened—on whom ? What ?—not yet catch my mean* 
ing? 

Step closer—half a step—no nearer. Mark 
The Babe’s fixed glance of calm equality. 

Observe that wondering, rapt, dilated gaze, 

The Mother’s superhuman joy and fear, 

That hushed, that startled adoration. Watch 
Those circled cherubs swarming into light, 


252 


Wreathing their splendid arch, their golden ring. 
Around the unveiled vision. Look above 
At the drawn curtain. Ah; we do not see 
God’s self; but they do. They are face to face 
With the Eternal Father. 

Sir, ’tis strange: 

That wondrous Virgin-face, which Raphael plucked 
From his vast soul four centuries ago, 

Is breathing now—not in his Italy— 

But on the shores where then flashed the sail 
Of Genoa’s ocean Pilot. 

Years ago 

We met mid-heaven, like drops of summer rain; 
Then, falling, parted. 

But observe the picture: 

Am I not right? Just, just before them burns, 
Viewless to us, the Unveiled Omnipotent. 

Yet somehow, critics fail to see, or say this. 



253 




^onnef: Sc* ^ereeff. 

By Vittoria Colonna. 

IRGIN most Pure, who never knewest night, 

Living within the Sun’s deathless day, 

The golden gleam of which, through all thy way, 

Made glad thy beauteous eyes, with joyous light: 

With thee the God-Man dwelt, when angels bright 
Lit up His lowly home with lustrous ray, 

And filled with awe, pleased homage sought to pay, 
Yearning His will to work, be what it might. 

Thou, the Eterne, veiled by our human screen, 

As Lord didst fear; didst cherish as thy Son; 

Didst love as Spouse; as Father didst adore. 

Pray that my troubled stream of life may run 

Back to its happy Source; and Heaven’s great Queen, 

Thy Mother-love show me too ever more. 


254 



Madonna in Glory , and Saints of Bologna. Guido Reni. 
[Bologna Gallery.] 






































































Madonna and Child in Glory, with Saints. Pietro Perugino. 
[Bologna Gallery.] 










3nt>ocafton in f$e “ (prioress' Cafe.” 

By Geoffrey Chaucer. 

Modernized by William Wordsworth. 

MOTHER-MAID ! O Maid and Mother free ! 

O bush unburnt, burning in Moses sight! 

That down didst ravish from the Deity, 

Through humbleness, the Spirit that did alight 
Upon thy heart, whence, through that glory’s might, 
Conceived was thy Father’s sapience, 

Help me to tell it in thy reverence ! 

Lady, thy goodness, thy magnificence, 

Thy virtue, and thy great humility, 

Surpass all science and all utterance ; 

For sometimes, Lady ! ere men pray to thee, 

Thou goest before in thy benignity, 

The light to us vouchsafing to our prayer, 

To be our guide unto thy Son so dear. 

My knowledge is so weak, O blissful Queen, 

To tell abroad thy mighty worthiness, 

That I the weight of it may not sustain ; 

But as a child of twelve months old, or less, 

That laboureth his language to express 
Even so fare I ; and, therefore, I thee pray, 

Guide thou my song, which I of thee shall say. 


*59 




£()C QJtrgtn ano J) er Q3a6c. 

By Alvaro de Hinojosa Y. Carbayal 

(XVII. Century, belonging to the Order of St. Benedict.) 

Translated by Sir John Bowring, author of “ The Cross of 
Christ arid Glory.” 

V IRGIN, that like Morn appears, 

With her Babe—a floweret too, 

Sprinkled with the sparkling dew 
Of His pure and holy tears. 

Where across the mountain’s height 
Lovely Daybreak flings her robe, 

And with smiles of love and light 
Decorates the awakening globe; 

Joy and gladness fill the heaven, 

When night’s curtains are withdrawn 
Virgin ! thou those smiles hast given ! 

All the rainbow’s tints are spread 
O’er clouds, and fields, and bowers: 

Lo, the proud carnation red ! 

Lo, the royal king of flowers ! 

Fragrant as ’tis glorious, sweet 
As ’tis stately, and ever true 
To the dawn—an emblem meet 
Of this Babe—a floweret too ! 


~6o 




The Madonna and Child. 


G. Von Bodenhausen, 










































• 















, 



















































































































































Our Lady of the Angels, jjg W. A. Bouguereau 















Yes ! That heavenly floweret fell 
From It’s Father’s breast, concealed 
In a mortal vestment veiled,— 

Beautiful as bright to view: 

O, what charms Its leaves unfold, 
Drenched with suffering’s sparkling dew. 

In the Valley see It sleep! 

On Its brow the death-sweats lie; 

O’er Its wreck the tempests sweep, 

And the herds pass careless by. 

Know that, though Its darkened orb 
Dimmed in earth’s low valley lies, 

Every tear earth’s clods absorb 
In a dew of Paradise. 


265 


JlJong of t$e QSfeeBcb (Ptrgtn, 

By Mrs. Felicia D. Hemans. 

Y ET as a sunburst, flushing mountain-snow, 

Fell the celestial touch of fire ere long. 

On the pale stillness of thy thoughtful brow, 

And thy calm spirit lightened into song, 
Unconsciously, perchance, yet free and strong 
Flowed the majestic toy of tuneful words, 

Which living harps the choirs of heaven among 
Might well have linked with their divinest chords. 
Full many a strain, borne far on glory’s blast, 
Shall leave, where once its haughty music passed, 
No more to memory than a reed’s faint sigh; 
While thine, O childlike Virgin, through all time 
Shall send its fervent breath o’er every clime, 
Being of God, and therefore not to die. 


? 66 



Coronation of the Virgin. Attributed to A. Van Dyck. 
[Georgetown, D, C,J 














































■ 


















■ 





















































. 


























































































Apparition of the Virgin to St. Bernard. Murillo. 
[Museum, Madrid,] 



©ttnna Commebid. 

By Dante Alighieri. 

Translated by H F. Cary. 

VISION OF PARADISE. Canto XXXII. 

“Saint Bernard shows Dante, on their several thrones 
other blessed saints.” 

F REELY the Sage, though wrapt in musings high. 
Assumed the teacher’s part, and mild began: 

“The wound that Mary closed, she opened first. 

Who sits so beautiful at Mary’s feet 
The third in order; underneath her, lo, 

Rachel with Beatrice; Sarah next; 

Judith, Rebecca, and the gleaner-maid, 

Meek ancestress of him who sang the songs 
Of sore repentance in his sorrowful mood. 

All as I name them, down from leaf to leaf, 

Are in gradation throned on the Rose. 

And from the seventh step successively, 

Adown the breathing tresses of the flower, 

Still doth the file of Hebrew dames proceed. 

For these are a partition wall, whereby 

The sacred stairs are severed, as the faith 

In Christ divides them. On this part, where blooms 

Each leaf in full maturity, are set 

Such as in Christ, or e’re He came, believed. 

On the other, where an intersected space 
Yet shows the semi-circle void, abide 
All they who looked to Christ already come. 


271 


And as our Lady on her glorious stool, 

And they who on their stools beneath her sit, 

This way distinction make; e’en so on his, 

The mighty Baptist that way marks the line 
(He who endured the desert, and the pains 
Of martyrdom, and for two years of hell. 

Yet still continued holy), and beneath, 

Augustine, Francis, Benedict, and the rest; 

Thus far from round to round. So heaven's decree 
Forecasts, this garden equally to fill 
With faith in either view, past or to come. 

Learn, too, that downward from the step which cleaves 
Midway the twain compartments, none there are 
Who place obtain for merit of their own, 

But have, through other’s merit, been advanced 
Onset conditions; spirits all released, 

Ere for themselves they had the power to choose. 

And if thou mark and listen to them well, 

Their childish looks and voice declare as much. 

Now raise thy view 

Unto the visage most resembling Christ: 

For in her splendour only shalt thou win 
The power to look on Him.” 

Forthwith, I saw 
Such floods of gladness on her visage showered, 

From holy spirits winging that profound, 

That whatsoever I had yet beheld 

Had not so much suspended me with wonder, 

Or shown me such similitude of God. 

And he who had to her descended once 

On earth, now hailed in heaven; and on poised wing, 

“Ave Maria; Gratia Plena,” sang: 

To whose sweet anthem all the blissful court, 

From all parts answering, rang: that holier joy 
Brooded the deep serene. 


272 


‘ r Father revered, 

Who deign’st for me to quit the pleasant place 
Wherein thou sittest, by eternal lot. 

Say, who that angel is, that with such glee 
Beholds our Queen, and so enamored glows 
Of her high beauty, that all fire he seems.” 

So I again resorted to the lore 

Of my wise teacher, he whom Mary’s charms 

Embellished, as the son the morning star; 

Who thus in answer spake: 

“ In him are summed 
Whate’er of buxomness and free delight 
May be in spirit, or in angel met: 

And so beseems; for that he bare the palm 
Down unto Mary, when the Son of God 
Vouchsafed to clothe him in terrestrial weeds. 

Now let thine eyes wait heedful on my words; 

And note thou of this just and pious realm 
The chiefest nobles. Those highest in bliss, 

The twain, on each hand next our Empress throned, 
Are, as it were, two roots unto this Rose: 

He to the left, the parent whose rash taste 
Proves bitter to his seed; and on the right, 

That ancient father of the holy church, 

Into whose keeping Christ did give the keys 
Of this sweet flower; near whom, behold the Seer 
That, ere he died, saw all the grievous times 
Of the fair bride, who with the lance and nails 
Was won. And near unto the other rests 
The leader, under whom on manna fed 
The ungrateful nation, fickle and perverse. 

On the other part, facing to Peter, lo, 

Where Anna sits, so well content to look 
On her loved Daughter that, with moveless eye, 

She chants the loud ‘Hosanna’: while opposed 


273 


To the first father of your mortal kind, 

Is Lucia, at whose hest thy lady sped, 

When on the edge of ruin closed thine eye. 

But (for the vision hasteneth to an end) 

Here we break off, as the good workman doth 
That shapes the cloak according to the cloth; 

And to the primal love our ken shall rise; 

That thou mayst penetrate the brightness, far 
As sight can bear thee. Yet alas, in sooth, 

Beating thy pennons, thinking to advance, 

Thou backward fallest. Grace, then, must first be gained 
Her grace whose might can help thee. Thou in prayer 
Seek her: and with affection, whilst I sue, 

Attend, and yield me all thy heart.” 



274 



The Angel Announces to the Virgin her Approaching Death. 

Fra Filippo Lippi. 












































































































[Academy, Venice.] 



(Ptrgtn QSorne 6g ®.ngefe. 

By Luis Ponce de Leon. 

Translated by Sir John Bowring. 

Lady, thou mountest slowly, 

O’er the bright cloud, while music sweetly plays ! 

Blest who thy mantle holy 
With outstretched hand may seize, 

And rise with thee to the Infinite of Days ! 

Around, behind, before thee 
3right angels wait, that watched thee from thy birth: 

A crown of stars is o’er thee,— 

The pale moon, of the earth,— 

Thou, supernatural queen, nearest in light and worth ! 

Turn, turn thy mildened gaze, 

Sweet bird of gentleness, on earth’s dark vale ! 

What flowerets it displays 
Amidst time’s twilight pale, 

Where many a son of Eve in toils and darkness strays l 

O, if thy vision see 

The wandering spirits of this earthly sphere,— 

Virgin ! to thee, to thee, 

Thy magnet voice will bear 
Their steps, to dwell with bliss through all eternity. 


279 


$$t @U6untpfton;£$dft>c (Utarfa. 

(Translated from the Flemish.) 

By S. Baring-Gould. 

R EJOICE, rejoice, with heart and voice to-day, 
That gentle Mary’s tears are wiped away. 
Who will not join the angels’ strains, 

When Mary pure her throne attains ? 

Salve Maria ! 

A path of light is in the summer sky ; 

And as the holy Mother passeth by 
The clouds are lit with rosy flame, 

And angels shout in glad acclaim, 

Salve Maria i 

Behold the gates of Zion open wide, 

For her the Virgin Mother and the Bride ; 
And Jesus from his rainbow throne 
Descends to lead His Mother home. 

Salve Maria! 

Shall He forget the Mother dear who pressed 
His baby lips upon her loving breast, 

And bore for Him the scorn and sneer, 

And wept for Him the anguish tear. 

Salve Maria! 

Oh joy ! to-day the Son His Mother greets, 
The sacred heart of each with rapture beats, 
And love that never chilled below, 
Throughout eternity shall flow. 

Salve Maria! 


280 



[Academy, Venice.! 








Forget the anguish of the Dolorous way, 

When thou did’st meet Him, Mother, and did’st stay 
Thy Son with—tears ; forget the pain 
Of watching Him, cross-bearing strain. 

Salve Maria ! 

Forget the hours of woe on Calvary, 

The moment when they laid Him on thy knee, 

And then when thou wast left alone 
Before the closed and sealed stone— 

Salve Maria! 

Now thy ascended Son exalteth thee 
That where He is there thou may’st also be. 

Thee, magnificent, O Queen ! we greet, 

Enthroned upon thy heavenly seat 

Salve Maria! 

O Mother, crowned the angels’ queen to-day ; 

O Mother, full of smiles to thee jve pay 
Our joyous laud and homage sweet, 

And thee with jubilation greet. 

Salve Maria ! 


283 



The Coronation of the Virgin. 
Fra Filippo Lippi. 


“ Where Mary sings Magnificat 
With tune surpassing sweet, 

And saints unnumbered bear their part, 
Singing about her feet.” 





















Angel 


Albert Durer. 


285 





“ But at any rate I have loved the season 
Of Art’s spring-birth so dim and dewy; 

My sculptor is Nicolo the Pisan, 

My painter—who but Cimabue?” 

Robert Browning. 


286 


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